


black rocks and shoreline sand

by the_milliners_rook



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: 70th Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Relationship Negotiation, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Timers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 138,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2220870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_milliners_rook/pseuds/the_milliners_rook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the question on everyone's unhappy mind: What the fuck is a soulmate anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mamihlapinatapei

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Babydoll Ria (Babydoll_Ria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babydoll_Ria/gifts).



> Title taken from Foals' song 'Spanish Sahara'.
> 
> Inspired by [Timer. ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timer_\(film\))
> 
> Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.

It’s more than just a Timer that draws them together. More than destiny, more than soulmates. 

Finnick bites back a derisive laugh.  _Soulmate._

What the fuck is a soulmate anyway?

It’s — that’s —

Anyway.

Finnick looks at his wrist, the smooth skin unmarred by the ripped out Timer, unmarred underneath his bracelets. Of course the Capitol wiped the blood away, healed his wrist as if it had never happened, and the only witness was Annie in the Arena grabbing her wrist and looking up wide-eyed, a deer in the headlights, while Finnick’s fingers were full of blood.

(He may be a heartless bastard, but he will never forget that moment. He did that.  _He did that_.)

It’s different now. He changed the rules. He — unmade them. And you can’t go back. You can never go back. Finnick learnt that long ago, licking the sugar off his lips and smiling prettily at his string of lovers. The skin knits back together, and it doesn’t matter how much you think the salt water disappears from the sun in the Capitol, some part of the sea always remains with you.

And now, he’s left with the consequences. The wreckage after the storm. Annie Cresta survived the games.

(And his weakness, his unscarred wrist, the blank dashes on hers, will forever haunt him.)

Fuck.

_Fuck._

He can’t stand to look at her, after. He stays away from her in the train, while Mags stays with Annie, the brave, the strong, the survivor. Annie says nothing, staring out the windows, and he knows that she can’t stand to look at him either.

She can’t stand to look at anything.

(Finnick still hasn’t apologized.)

 

 

The thing is, Finnick’s always been a coward in the worst possible way. He can fake it until he makes it to people he doesn’t give a damn about, until he does, and that’s the problem.  He's careful, but being careful isn’t always enough. The lies catch up, slowly devour him. That’s always been the fucking problem.

He's let Annie in, somehow, despite everything, and dancing around her with half-truths will only get him so far. Luck runs out, sooner or later, but Finnick is willing to take that chance as far as it will go.

Hell, he could never lie to Aunt Maria, who knows everything, and sees through him anyway, telling him as much.

Annie, though, Annie can stop him with a look, her sharp green eyes cutting through the bullshit, and — fuck.

He doesn’t know what he’d say to Annie, even if he tried.

 

 

It’s a calm, sunny day when Finnick takes Annie to the sea. There’s danger in still waters, and maybe that’s why Finnick does it in the end.

He rows until his wrists ache, and that’s penance, right? It will never be enough, but it’ll do for now.

"There’s blood in the water," Annie says, palms open to the sky.

Her Timer still on her wrist, blank forever and always now, but still intrinsically connected to  _him_.

"It’s a fish eat fish world," Finnick says, because they’ve known the cruelty of the sea all their life, long before they were Careers, long before they were soulmates, long before they forgot about innocence.

"It’s never going to go away, is it?" Annie asks, lashes darkly framed around her eyes, and it hits Finnick all at once, too late,  _always_  too late —

Mags had told him that he’s a bright boy, but terribly stupid when it counts to affairs of the heart. Back then, he’d laughed and locked his heart away, thinking that the solution was that easy, to swear that his own heart was to be guarded at the bottom of the ocean, a treasure chest hidden under a mountain of sand. Davy Jones’ Locker, natch.

Somehow, that hadn’t stopped him from trying to slip in a piece of emerald and drowning in its green depths in the process.

"No," Finnick says, swallowing, and couldn’t pull himself away even if he tried. "Never."

Annie nods, then looks away. There’s a ship visible in the distance, and Annie watches it.

"I missed this," she says, her voice soft, as she reaches out to make ripples in the water. "I missed the sea."

"Yeah," Finnick tries to smile, throat too thick. "There’s nothing quite like home."

 

 

He claws at his wrist when he’s by himself that night, red raw marks raked across his smooth, smooth skin.

 _Soulmate._  The word sticks in his mind, in his mouth, in the flat of his tongue, and he’d laugh if he could.  _What the fuck is a soulmate anyway?_

Not this.

_Not fucking this._


	2. Anagapesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anagapesis - The feeling when one no longer loves someone they once did.

Annie says no.

Annie is twelve and bright-eyed and stubborn, her hair is bedraggled and messy and draped over her shoulders like seaweed splayed across the ocean shore, and she stares at the man from District Three and repeats her decision. She ignores the Timer in his hand, supposedly meant for her.

She stares at him straight in the eye, unflinching and unyielding, arms folded over her chest.

Her chin raised high, her choice is no.

 

 

“What’s the point of one?” She shrugs, later, when she gets asked by Coral, a better knife thrower than Annie could ever hope to be.

Coral looks admiringly at her own wrist, still a few more years to go. She can't wait. She’s so excited to meet her soulmate.

Annie knows, because she’s heard it every day.

Annie’s nose wrinkles, tuning out as she tends to whenever Coral goes on and on about it, and she collects more shells to take back home. Mutters under her breath. “It doesn’t seem like fun  _at all._ ”

She makes a bracelet that night, striping one shell blue, dotting another green, and with a curly flick, paints the letter A in red. When it dries, her daddy ties it around her wrist, and Annie beams.

It looks prettier than a countdown ever could.

 

 

Here’s the thing:

Annie Cresta’s parents aren’t romantic. Sophie Cresta has never cared about destiny: she doesn’t need some divine device to make that decision for her. The day she saw Zeke, she knew he was an idiot, and she never paid much mind to him until later. She cared more about the shine of fish scales than the shine of a golden ring. Better to eat than to love, she figured. Common sense worked better that way. And if she loved him back, if she loved him later, well, that’s a different tale that doesn’t need telling. She wears his ring, that’s plenty proof enough.

As for Zeke Cresta and the scar of his wrist: he gets a Timer the day he turns fifteen, then has it removed a week later. A fishing accident, he likes to say, the hook scratched him a little too deeply. Everyone knows that Zeke Cresta can’t lie for shit. The truth is, after a week, he couldn’t be bothered to wait for the moment when the numbers appeared and the countdown would start, whenever that might be. He’s too impatient for that kind of thing, and with dry wit, Sophie tells him, it’s a miracle he’s a fisherman. Zeke merely shrugs and asks what else is there for him to be, if they’re living in District Four? He can’t make his living by skipping stones.

The way Annie sees it, whenever she gets told for being old fashioned, is that she’s not the one letting her life get dictated by a machine.

She’s like her parents; she isn’t one for romantic things either.  Like her parents, Annie will choose the person she loves.

 

 

The Timer has existed as long as the Hunger Games had. Initially a party trick from District Three, it evolved under the Capitol’s control, into something aligned with stars and destiny, true love and soulmates, until suddenly it became mandatory for all tributes to wear one.

Just in case the conflict becomes more entertaining for the Capitol.

Just in case they find their soulmate in the Arena and have to rip their throat out with their teeth.

Just in case they wanted to know who their last chance at happiness is, while they still remained in their District, alive and scared and doomed.

(Just in case, after, if they survive, they can cling to that slither of redemption and wash the blood off their hands. A soulmate will do that, the spokesperson from District Three promises. A soulmate will forgive them and love and stand by them on their worst days.)

A District One tribute’s soulmate might be someone from District Twelve, a terribly unbefitting match. A District Two tribute might find their soulmate to be a District Four tribute, two Careers working together to their strengths before the inevitable end. A District Five tribute might discover small mercy in their soulmate from District Nine, doomed by their shared inexperience. Do they trust each other or do they kill each other? The possibilities are endless.

Because who doesn’t love a good soulmate story?

 

 

Annie turns sixteen, and she falls in love that summer with a boy named Neptune Jones. It’s love, because she flushes each time she catches his eyes gleam in a sunset, it's love because of the way his too-big hands splay over her stomach and curl against her clothes send sparks across her skin, it’s love because she doesn’t need a Timer to tell her what she feels. Not when she prefers how he steals her kisses when no one is looking instead.

The point is: she chose him.

She saw him flecked across the ocean water, and watched him emerged from the glittering depths of the sun-streaked waters, and thought  _I like you._

 

 

When Finnick Odair became a victor, there was a surge in Timers. It wasn’t hard to see why. A pretty boy like him, with golden curls and golden grins, no wonder people hoped that they might be so lucky.

Finnick Odair smiled at the camera, at Caesar, at the Capitol, bathed in gold and crowned in laurels, trident in hand, his teeth bared like a shark out for blood, and all of Panem held their breath.

 

 

“What if,” Coral begins, weaving Annie’s hair into plaits. Her hands settle on Annie’s shoulders and Annie rolls her eyes. “What if you got them, you and Neptune, and it turns out that you two are soulmates?”

It's a question Coral has asked before. 

“Well if that _was_ the case, I’d think that it would be a waste of time,” Annie admits honestly, cheerfully blunt, not sure whether she should pull away or stay where she is. She stays where she is.

Coral resumes plaiting, but not before she tugs at Annie's hair, unable to suppress her annoyance. Coral has never liked Annie’s honesty when it comes to soulmates, but somehow they’re still good friends anyway.

“Besides,” Annie points out, “we’ve only been dating for a week.”

“So? Better to find out earlier than never,” Coral hums, her flaxen hair pulled neatly into a ponytail. “Better to find out now that he’s your soulmate, right?”

“Why?” Annie blinks. “Because it would be easier that way?”

“Love is easy. It will be,” Coral says firmly, twisting the bobble one last time. “All _I_ have to do is wait.”

“And you’re sure that’s not the easy part?” Annie says, smoothing out the creases on her skirt, knowing that conversation is dismissed for now.

 

 

Coral has ideas, Annie knows, the same one she’s always had ever since Annie’s met her. Coral has hopes and dreams about who her soulmate is going to be, and she can’t wait to see them proven wrong. Her ideal soulmate is going to have long dark hair that traps a sickle moon; she’s going to have a pretty smile, slender shoulders and looks breakable in the breeze. She’s going to love cake and her preferred weapon is going to be the net because she has nimble fingers. They’re going to fall in love and it will be easy.

The details change, often, but one thing never does: Coral meets her soulmate, and falls deeply in love with her.

“Someone like Gwen, you mean?” Annie deadpans, the first time she hears the latest edition, in a tone that isn’t dissimilar to her mother’s scepticism. She raises an eyebrow, in fact. It’s impossible thing, because Gwen with her long, dark hair and pretty smile has talked with Coral an endless amount of times, and doesn’t wear a Timer.

“Well,” Coral coughs, her cheeks the lightest shade of pink. “Maybe. I hope?”

“So, alright. You meet the person that’s a little bit like Gwen. And it’ll be smooth sailing, just like that,” Annie says, absentmindedly, picking up another stone and tossing it across the water, watching it bounce four times and valiantly tries for a fifth. She smiles to herself, before turning curiously to her best friend. “Doesn't that sound… _boring_ to you?”

“Boring,” Coral repeats, outraged, crossing her arms. “You mean —”

“No fun at all,” Annie grins, flicking her wrist and the pebble skims the water’s surface beautifully.

“But don’t you want to know?” Coral asks, later, quietly, as the light begins to fade, twirling the stone as easily as wielding a knife. There are only a few more days to go before she finds out who her soulmate is. “Just to be certain.”

 

 

There’s a Timer on Neptune’s wrist, the numbers going down. She notices it for the first time when he tugs his sleeve past his elbow and he grins messily at her.

“It’s a trick, see?” Neptune laughs, peeling the sticker of his wrist, his skin unblemished, like it’s the best prank ever told. “I don’t… I’ve never seen the point of having a soulmate, but it stops people from asking.”

She feels like laughing when he stutters over his words, pressing her lips together to hide her smile, and banishes the thought out her mind that maybe — _maybe_ —

“Clever,” Annie says and grins instead. Each time she pushes herself to her tiptoes, she reaches for his wrist and tears the fake Timer away with her nails. She’s always careful to return it, smoothing the sticker over some part of him where it shouldn’t be: his hip, his hand, his heart, and idly wonders if he’s using the Timer as a placeholder for when they’ll next meet.

 

 

The week before the reaping, Coral finds out who her match made in heaven is.

“A  _boy,_ ” Coral howls, eyes puffy, red. “My soulmate is —  _is a boy.”_

Annie sits beside her, legs dangling in the pier. She’s just as surprised. The last thing either of them expected for Coral’s soulmate was going to be someone called _James_. They meet, as fate would have it, in the marketplace. An apple rolled towards Coral, she picked it up, looked to where it came from and then, as their eyes met, the Timer went off. Her face drained of colour at the realization. As briskly as she could, Coral turned and walked away, refusing to look back.

Annie followed. Coral’s soulmate did not.

“Love is supposed to easy,” Annie murmurs, “Isn’t that what you said?”

 _“Shut up,”_ Coral snaps, cheeks wet. “I thought — it was supposed to be —”

“Someone like Gwen,” Annie nods, breathing out heavily, wanting to do something — reach out, punch her shoulder, maybe. Give her a hug. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

 

Neptune picks up a pebble, throws it into the water and says, “Soulmate. What does that mean anyway?”

 

 

The closest Annie Cresta has ever been to Finnick Odair is when she walks in front of him to stand in the middle of the stage after Theo calls her name. He’s even more radiant in person, and he knows it. It’s a little bit like looking at the sun without shading her eyes first.

He doesn’t even look at her.

Annie looks at the other victors: Mags Cohen, Muscida Selkirk, Librae Ogilvy and Ron Stafford, how they stand and regard her in a mixture of pity and curiosity. If she can’t choose her battlefield, at least she might be able to choose someone who can teach her how to stare death in the face and say today is a good day to die.

Annie stands and waits and her heart breaks a little bit more when Theo calls out the name of the male tribute, a boy of fourteen with a mop of curly hair, and he stumbles on his feet as he makes her way towards them.

Teddy Ellis.

Coral’s little brother.

 

 

It’s funny. She doesn’t really feel anything. Not fear, not terror. Just a strange sense of calmness as she seeks out her parent’s faces. She’s been brought up all her life for this. In some ways, this is what she’s been waiting for, the chance to prove herself, and the odds are finally in her favour because she can prove how good she really is, armed with nothing but a stone. She knows other tricks: Zeke’s speciality at hooks, Sophie’s knack for paint. But she doesn’t feel excited.

There’s a hollowness being born inside her, seeping through her bones, and she decides then and there: if it’s between her and Teddy, she’ll take the fall.

She has to protect him.

 

 

When Annie is twelve she has the choice to say no. When Annie turns eighteen, she doesn’t have that choice anymore.

And Neptune Jones, spending the last sunset with her in District Four, says, “Soulmate. What does that mean anyway?”

 

 

Annie says, “You don’t have to do this.”

Annie says, “It’s okay, Jones.”

Annie says, “You don’t have to wait for me to come back.”

Neptune gives her a look. “Come on, Cresta. Don’t be like that. I want to.”

“Okay,” she says, pushing herself to her tiptoes and slipping the Timer sticker off his wrist one last time before she cards her fingers through his soft hair. “Okay.”

Neptune says, between kisses, “You’re going to come back.”

She thinks of Coral, thinks of Teddy, thinks that no one really comes back from the games.

Annie says, "I love you."

 

 

They get the Timers together, just in case they’re soulmates after all. May the odds be ever in your favour, a woman from District Three says, after telling them that the process is quick and painless, over before they know it.

Neptune goes first.

There’s nothing but blank dashes.

The relief Annie feels is overwhelming, hope filling her up inside her like air to a balloon.

Her turn next.

And it’s —

Her soulmate isn’t Neptune.

 

 

On the pier, with the sunset fading into night, Neptune throws a pebble into the water and says, “Soulmate. What does that mean anyway?”

“Nothing,” Annie says, and hates that her Timer is set to zero. Tomorrow. She’s going to meet her soulmate _tomorrow_. “It doesn’t have to mean _anything_ , Neptune.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Neptune says, throat tight, like he’s stopping himself from crying. “I love you _. I love you._  Some  _device_  can’t take that away just because you’re —”

He breaks off, brusque, and Annie finishes what he can’t say.

“Not my soulmate.”

“Yeah.” 

“It doesn’t. It can’t,” Annie says, watching dusk creep through the beginning of the end, and if this is how it ends, then she wants to throw one more stone, see how the ripples are formed, and make sure that her last memory is a good one.

Her last memory is — him, her, sunset and sunrise spent sleeping on the docks, Timer on one wrist, and a seashell bracelet on the other. Her last memory is this:

“I still love you.”

 

 

(It’s Finnick Odair.

Finnick Odair: soulmate, mentor, friend.

Finnick Odair is… complicated.)

 

 

After:

She comes back, but she’s not the same.

It doesn’t matter that the Timer on her wrist is blank, it doesn’t matter that the person she was died with the screams and the earthquake, with the blood splatter sticking to her clothes, it doesn’t matter that she was reborn in water or that she dragged everyone still alive down to their last dying breath, submerging them to the watery depths of hell.

What matters is that she’s different and the Annie Cresta that Neptune Jones loved (loves) is gone.


	3. Ultracrepidarian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ultracrepidarian - Of one who speaks or offers opinions on matters beyond their knowledge.

Listen.

It’s supposed to go like this:

The morning is bright and blue and beautiful. The morning is silent save for the sound of the train on the tracks. It’s a poor substitute for the sea, closer to the patter of rain hitting the windowsills, but it’ll do, each tribute from District Four tells themselves, the first time, the last time, the next time until they can no longer believe it. It’ll do.

Finnick opens the door and greets Annie Cresta with a smile. She smiles back, a little bit dazed, a little bit sad, a little bit scared. A little bit how she seemed yesterday. The shock hasn’t completely washed away. Finnick doesn’t blame her.

“Hello, Annie,” Finnick says, and wonders how deadly she is with a trident, a net, a knife. It’s best to focus on her strengths. “I’m Finnick Odair.”

“Hi Finnick,” Annie says, voice deceptively soft, like her tears have been swallowed by the sea, dried by the sun, and all that’s left is the soft glow on her rosy cheeks.

“I’m your mentor this year. One of them, at least,” Finnick says, straight to business, ready to get through the stock speech as fast as possible. “Aren’t you lucky I’m first?”

That prompts a smile,  _something_  more real than the first tentative smile that’s a reflex action more than anything else. Who wouldn’t smile at seeing the fantastic Finnick Odair? Make ‘em laugh, that’s one of the first tricks Finnick’s grandfather told him. He had a lot of advice like that. Make ‘em smile, make ‘em blush, make ‘em like you, and you’re half-way there already to betraying their trust and stabbing them in the back. 

If nothing else, Finnick’s good at making first impressions.

“The luckiest,” Annie agrees, humouring him with a roll of her eyes.

Finnick grins back. He likes her already, but then instantly liking someone has never been a hardship. Not even for pretend.

“So, Annie, tell me about yourself.”

 

 

It’s supposed to go something along those lines. Either they admire him or they don’t, or they snap out of their daze or they don’t, but Finnick is usually able to break the ice with a sly remark that gets them laughing like they’re friends for the time being.

It’s been like that that for the last four times.

 

 

(It’s not meant to go like —

His soulmate isn’t — doesn’t —

It’s stupid of him, really, to not expect this.)

 

 

He made Mags smile the first time he met her. The difference was: she taught him how to sharpen his teeth and show it to Panem, and Panem adored him for it.

 

 

Instead, it goes like this:

The morning is bright and blue and beautiful, and there’s nothing better that Muscida Selkirk likes to do so early in the morning than to try and pick apart the mystery of Finnick’s soulmate, instead of paying attention to the tributes. It’s a hobby of his.

“Any luck?” Muscida asks, head tilted enough so his uncombed mess of black hair falls over his eyes.

It’s a good enough hello as any. They don’t talk much.

“Not yet,” Finnick shrugs, sitting himself on an opposite chair. They’re gathered in the same carriage to inspect the competition, to discuss the tributes and how they’re going to train them, and for small-talk, the topic of conversation is soulmates, yet again. He’s the unlucky one, to Muscida, at least.

He’s nineteen, and his mouth is getting sweeter with each passing year. Finnick doesn’t care too much about his soulmate, or lack thereof.

He grins at Librae. “Been thinking about getting rid of it, actually.”

It’s an old script they have, comforting in the worst of ways. Fate, destiny, whatever unknown method the Timers use in order to function, keeps his Timer blank. In return, he covers his wrist with netting and trinkets, and keeps the broken thing as a reminder.

His soulmate neither cares nor wants to meet him. Finnick likes them better for it.

“Go on, do it,” Ron says, challenging him, always ready to rise to the bait. “Who says they work anyway?”

“Oh no. We’re not having this conversation  _again,_ ” Librae mutters, scooping the frosted icing off her cupcake with her finger. She scowls at Finnick, then looks contemptuously at Muscida. “I thought I wasn’t going to need a drink this early in the morning, but you always know how to prove me wrong, Stafford.”

It’s stupid and childish of Finnick, but he hides a smirk regardless, delighted to rile Librae up once again, if it means to divert the attention on the subject of soulmates.

Oblivious to this, Librae huffs, turning her attention back to Ron, lips curled disdainfully. “Every _fucking_ time.”

“Hey, now,” Ron hands her a bottle of root beer, as if that will serve as peace offering. “I’m not the one that started the conversation.”

“No, you’re right. You’re the one  _continuing_  it,” Librae snaps, ringlets of curly hair bouncing.

“And all of you are obsessed with my soulmate,” Finnick groans, stretching out his feet on the table. “Is true love that important?”

“A soulmate isn’t true love,” Ron says, automatically.

Muscida frowns. “Yes it is.”

“Never mind,” Finnick says, shrugging, preferring to end the conversation before an argument erupts between Ron and Muscida about semantics. “It doesn’t matter, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

 _“Odair,”_  Librae glares, nose wrinkles, just as Mags snorts. “You promised _._ ”

“Just this once,” Finnick grins, boyish charm at his best, only serving to infuriate her.

Librae’s eyes narrow.

“Fine.”

“Why do you care so much, Muscida?” Mags asks, eyes sombre, and it should be a natural end to the conversation. It would be, if Mags had asked any of the others — they’d take the hint and say no more about it.

But Muscida Selkirk has always been a little bit different from the rest of the victors.

“I worry, is all,” Muscida states simply, so matter of fact and Finnick resents him for his contriteness. He means well, but it’s infuriating nonetheless.

Muscida Selkirk has always been one of the lucky ones. Among the District Four victors, he’s the luckiest.

“Don’t bother,” Ron spits, like it’s the dirtiest thing he’s ever heard. “Soulmates aren’t our fucking salvation.”

“He’s got a point, Selkirk,” Librae agrees, honey blonde hair falling over her shoulders. “Fuck off.”  

 

 

Muscida Selkirk is as old as shit, but that’s not the fucking problem. The fucking problem is that he means well. Out of the five District Four victors, he’s the one happy with his soulmate, the closest to a gift-wrapped package of goodness that is never meant to be lorded over them. But —

But it is.

Muscida means well. Finnick knows. Of course Muscida does.

Sometimes, Finnick will humour him and ask Muscida, when he’s in a better mood, who his soulmate might be. Whether it’s a girl or a boy, and then he’ll make snarky comments when it’s seems a little too good to be true.

It’s times like those that Ron will call them both fools.

 

 

But, see, Finnick signed on willingly. He got the Timer when he was twelve, and hoped that the person just for him, girl or boy, was someone special. Someone worth believing in. Someone who he could wrap his entire world around.

And then —

And then the Hunger Games happened, and he was reaped, and he survived, and things were different.

 

 

He thought about it, during the Victory Tour, during the first Hunger Game he was a mentor, and the first time he was on his knees for the good of the Capitol. He thought about it a lot, whether he should just get the Timer removed, if that would make it easier.

It hurt to look at his wrist and see the Timer without a countdown. It hurt to think that maybe he wasn’t supposed to have one, and that was that.

His soulmate could already be dead.

 

 

In the end, Finnick kept his Timer as a reminder. He likes the weight of it on his wrist, likes that he can cover his wrist in pretty bangles and bracelets and shells and nets, and tease anyone who dares ask what his Timer says.

A soulmate, Finnick figures, isn’t as useful as the secrets he’s beginning to keep.

What the fuck is a soulmate worth?

 

 

“Finn, the problem is,” Muscida said, two years ago, plaid shirts half-hanging over his jeans that he’s forgotten to tuck in again, “I don’t know what I’m talking about either.”

“Yeah,” Finnick said, sour, closing his eyes and trying to relax to the sound of the waves against his boat. “ _That’s_ the problem.”

It was supposed to be a fishing trip. Not another chat.

“I want you all to be happy,” Muscida said, his sincerity clear as day. He meant well, he always had. “You’ll get there.”

Besides Mags, Finnick’s the last one now, who had yet to know his soulmate. Librae found hers a few months back, still furious about it.

“And some device is going to make that happen?” Finnick raised an eyebrow and looked at Muscida with disbelief.  “You think it’ll be that easy?”

His wrinkles were beginning to show. He looked old, Finnick had thought. Strong, sturdy, ready to haul a mountain on his shoulders if he needed to, but old, nonetheless.

It was Librae’s words and accusations that Finnick had lashed out at Muscida, fears that echoed in his head, and left him feeling rattled.

“Yes,” Muscida replied simply, unshakable in his belief, despite Librae’s newfound cynicism. “You must believe that too. Part of you does, at least. Why else do you keep it?”

(Maybe Finnick _had_ believed. Once upon a time while he was still wet behind the ears.)

 “I don’t know _what_ I believe, these days,” Finnick admitted, muttering, and it’s not — it’s not like he believed in soulmates like he used to, alright? He’s not even sure that he’s waiting for the numbers to appear anymore. But the Timer was a comforting weight on his wrist, one that he forgot is even there half the time because it doesn’t do anything at all. “But I keep it because it’s a hassle to get it removed.”

“Alright,” Muscida said, placating, and neither of them mentioned how Librae clawed her Timer off because  _it wasn’t supposed to be like this, it wasn’t supposed to be —_

Finnick asked, while the two of them begin to fish, and because part of him can never really resist, who his soulmate might be, and let Muscida tell him a pretty fantasy.

 

 

Is a soulmate still a soulmate, without the Timer on your wrist telling you it is?

 

 

Sometimes it’s like this: Finnick’s soulmate is a boy with a crooked nose and scarred hands.

Sometimes it’s like this: Finnick’s soulmate is a girl with the prettiest grin and the wickedest sense of humour.

Librae will add: the boy will have broken fingernails and scratch your skin raw, the girl will never love you the way you want her to.

Ron won’t comment. He drinks instead.

Mags says: it’s up to you, Finn. It's always up to you.

 

 

Maybe Muscida doesn’t really care about who his soulmate is, after all. He just likes the possibilities, the endless variations until the final answer reveals itself, and happiness comes in a box, tied up neatly in a bow, waiting to be opened.

It’s the principle of the thing, the security a soulmate promises, the idea people keep foisting onto children’s belief’s while the countdown reaches its dead-end.

And, who needs happiness, a soulmate, a safety net, when Finnick is losing himself in water, submerging himself in sweat and sex, and dissolving like sugar cubes.

 

 

Mags is as old as shit, too. But that’s different. Everyone likes Mags. Mags is old, older than Muscida, but still, it's a general rule not to badmouth Mags.

Everyone envies Mags, because she’s been granted a boon and a curse that the other Careers can never have.

(Finnick could have that boon, that curse if he wanted it badly enough. The numbers aren’t there. The countdown has never appeared. If he wants, he could live his life without ever knowing. It would still be a life well lived.) 

Before the countdown had hit zero, they all could have removed the Timer from their wrists and strip them of whatever destiny holds in store for them, only —

Maybe they’re all cowards. The whole lot of them, and that’s why after they survive, coming home like driftwood on the shore, in splintered, rotten pieces, they hold on to the Timer for that last shred of hope.

Mags is happy. The only one closest to that happiness is Muscida, and even then —

It’s not the same and they all know it.

 

 

The victors sit in silence, mulling over the tributes from the other districts. The morning is bright and blue and beautiful. The morning is silent save for the sound of the train on the tracks.

“Poor girl,” Ron says, voice gravelly, the first to speak about the inevitable. “She’d nearly escaped as well.”

“Huh?” Librae looks up, curious, eyes wide. It makes her look years younger, and it makes Finnick wonder how Librae is only slightly older than him. “How old?”

“Eighteen,” Mags says, because of course she knows.

“Ah,” Muscida says, for lack of anything else. “That’ll be in her favour.”

Finnick folds his arms across his chest. “What about Ellis?”

Mags knows that too. “Fourteen.”

“Could be a winner,” Finnick tilts his head to the side, thoughtful.

“God knows we need more tributes like you, Finn,” Ron snorts, and Finnick is too far away to hit him.

But he can still tell him to shut up.

 

 

Librae stands. Rolls her shoulders, and winces when they click. “I’m going to go for a walk. Need to stretch my legs.”

“We’re half-way there. Go and see them,” Theo says, entering the carriage and leaving the door open.

“Fine,” Librae says, pushing past. “I’ll go first. Finnick, with me.”

“Oh, is that how it is?” Finnick leers, unable to resist, as he slips into the corridor.

“In your dreams, Odair,” she says, walking off and not looking back.

 

 

Listen.

It goes like this:

The afternoon is bright and blue and beautiful. The afternoon is silent save for the sound of the train on the tracks. It’s a poor substitute for the sea, closer to the patter of rain hitting the windowsills, but it’ll do, each tribute from District Four tells themselves, the first time, the last time, the next time until they can no longer believe it. It’ll do.

Finnick opens the door and greets Annie with a smile. She isn’t looking at him; too busy gazing out the window, her hand carded through Edward Ellis’ hair. The light reflected on her face makes her seem more breakable.

He’s never really liked this part.

“Hello Annie Cresta,” Finnick says, getting her attention this time.

The boy on her lap continues to sleep, and Annie turns towards him, mouth parting presumably to return the greeting and —

Just like that, it all goes to hell.

The Timers on their wrists go off. Edward Ellis sleeps on.

“Oh,” Annie says, a dazed quality in her voice like she hasn’t realized that she’s spoken aloud. Her shoulders sink even lower, tousled hair curling over the slopes. She blinks, quick to realize what this means, quicker than Finnick because —  _because_ —

Her hand stills on the sleeping boy’s head. “Oh no.”

 

 

There’s this myth that knowing who your soulmate is means that you will instantly be in love. It’ll be heart eyes and smooth sailing and easy, knowing who your predestined other is. According to the Capitol, it’s the greatest gift District Three could ever give.

It might have been the case for Muscida and Julian, happy together for at least twenty, thirty years.  It might have been the case for a thousand other people in the districts, in the Capitol.

But it’s not for Librae, it’s not for Ron, and it certainly isn’t for Finnick.

 

 

“So,” Finnick says, not sure what to say. He didn’t expect this. He thought — “You’re… mine.”

Her mouth presses into a thin line, a flash of anger existing like lightning across glimmering sea water.

He thought —

“Yes,” Annie says, blinking until the anger fades, seeping only into a sea green sadness.

He thinks about taking the bangles off his wrist, except what’s the point? He knows what he’d see. The countdown’s hit zero.

He hadn’t even thought he  _had_  a countdown.

How long had it been since Finnick gave up on even thinking his soulmate would ever even get the damn thing?

“I didn’t want this,” Finnick tells her, his thoughts beginning to unwind, to get past the initial thought of  _impossible_ , and this is awful because —

It hits him at once that maybe Annie Cresta didn’t want the Timer  _at all_ and that’s why —

_What the fuck is a soulmate anyway?_

To Muscida, it’s unequivocally synonymous to happiness. To Mags, it’s the husband she picked in sickness and health, the one she came home to, after the games happen yet again. To Ron, it’s a lie, pointless marketing, that is telling him to spend his life with someone he doesn’t like, and he refuses, deciding that he will forge his own path instead. To Librae, it’s a meaningless word now. It used to mean hope. It doesn’t mean anything now.

What does the word mean to Finnick Odair?

He thought —

He should have expected this. It’s stupid of him, really, to not expect this. It’s stupid of him to think that his soulmate didn’t exist. It’s stupid of him to never imagine that his soulmate might be another tribute.

(He thought — well, maybe — he’d meet his soulmate when he was older. Not when he’s nineteen.)

Annie looks down, sighing, just as Edward begins to stir, and she can’t smooth the pain away by running her hands through his hair.

 _Fuck,_ Finnick thinks, as he realises that the two tributes know each other, that they’re close. _Fuck_. That makes the games for them that much worse.

 _Break the ice, Finnick_ , he tells himself,  _you can do this._

He can’t. He stands there, stunned, unable to say anything.

When Annie speaks again, she’s looking out the window. She looks as lost as he feels, stripped bare of all the smart remarks he should have brought into the room to make ‘em laugh.

“Me either,” Annie says, soft and resigned and ready to die in the Arena without a fight.


	4. Brontide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brontide - The low rumbling of distant thunder.

In a stark white room of the Justice Building, Annie sits, her light green dress smoothed over her knees. It’s the kind of green that makes her skin seem too pale and brings out the beauty of her sea green eyes. Or so her father tells her.

She still doesn’t feel anything, like she’s encased in a cocoon that shields her from her emotions. Numbly, she thinks she might as well be wading into water, sand slipping in the space between her toes; her parents’ embrace the constant tug of the sea.

_Smile. Put a brave face on. Tell yourself you can be strong enough. Try to believe it._

Her mother’s hands are rough against Annie’s face, palms turned callous from slicing fish, and she angles Annie’s chin with her finger and thumb.

"Remember, they can only take you so far," Sophie Cresta says, voice urgent, trying to remain calm. She’s spent too long wearing a brave face that Annie knows that her mother can wear no other. "Annie. Remember your strengths. Use them."

"I will."

Annie nods, and her mother lets go.

Her father’s embrace is so tight that Annie can’t breathe. Like quicksand, she sinks.

“ _Dad,_ " Annie says, nose wrinkling, and then stops, trying to cherish their last moments together instead. Annie lets her father support her weight.

"Sorry," Zeke Cresta mumbles, mouth pressed to her hair, a gentle kiss. His hold loosens marginally. "You were nearly out, Annie, I hoped —"

"Yeah," Annie can’t bear for him to finish that thought. It’s too late for that. What’s done is done. "I know."

"You’re a good kid. If you set your mind to it —"

"— I can do anything," Annie says, pulling her father closer, palms flat against his shoulder blades. Her heart twists, a muscle that beats and breaks in equal measure.

Zeke kisses her cheek, stubble scratching.

"Show them what you’re made of."

 

 

She sits in the room for a very long time, enveloped in silence, trying to gather her thoughts.

When the door opens, she half-expects it to be Neptune, or a person from District Three, come to force the Timer onto her wrist.

It’s Coral.

Washed out by grief, but warm and familiar all the same, Annie clings to her. Weeps. Annie can’t wear her brave face any longer. Her tears fall, and there must be bravery in that, somehow.

"Annie,” Coral cries, burying her head in Annie’s shoulder. “Oh,  _Annie._ _I’m so —_ _”_

If she asked, what would Coral say?

Annie closes her eyes and pushes the thought away. Only —

"I’ll look after him," Annie promises, fierce. "Teddy’s going to —"

A world without Teddy Ellis is inconceivable. It’s not possible. It doesn’t exist.

Teddy Ellis, armed with messy hair, infectious laughter and sticky fingers. Annie had it all planned out with Coral: he’s going to be a force to be reckoned with, like his idol. He shared his sister’s skill at knife-throwing, he was growing up to be kind, picking up on Annie’s pastime for painting shells and he collected some after school. He liked that Annie made sea-shell bracelets just for him, and proudly he’d show it off to all his friends.

"He’s going to be alright," Annie says with finality, glad that Coral can’t see her face.

Coral’s shoulder fall, and Annie can’t tell whether it’s from relief or resignation because no matter what happens, even if one of them survives, it’s never going to be the same. Anguish slopes into the weariness of her spine, like the weight of loss is too much to care, even with Annie’s reassurance. There’s no guarantee they’ll survive.

"What about you?" Coral asks, her features marred by worry, her hands on Annie’s shoulders. “I don’t want to lose either of you.”

Annie’s mouth goes dry. 

Annie can’t lie for shit. She inherited that from her father. The trick, Zeke tells her with a toothy grin, and an impish look towards Sophie, as she predictably rolls her eyes, is to neither lie nor tell the truth.

(“Zeke, dear,” Sophie had said, voice dry as a bone. “How often has that worked out  _well_ for you?”)

Annie says, lips quirked, “I’ll figure something out.”

 

 

_Him or me?_

It’s there on the tip of her tongue, a pearl in her mouth.

_If you could choose, who would you pick?_

 

"Hey, don’t be like that! You could do a lot worse than the Great Finnick Odair."

"Famed for his modesty and his charming smile," Annie remarks, unable to help it. She threads her fingers through Teddy’s curly locks. Continues to look at Finnick Odair, baffled and bemused. "Nobody ever told me that you referred to yourself in third person."

"Made you smile, though," Finnick grins winningly, and it takes a second to realize that he’s right.

"Guess you did," Annie blinks, and her sort of smile fades soon afterwards, not knowing what else there is to say, to think, to feel.

Mostly, she just feels awkward.

They fall into silence after that, and Teddy’s eyes flutter open, oblivious to the pleasant surprise that is sure to make him forget, temporarily, what the future has in store for them.

"Did I miss much?"

"Not really. There’s someone here to meet you, Teddy," Annie says, pretending that her heart isn’t twisting, trying not to give anything away. "Want to say hello?"

“Okay.”

Still sleepy, Teddy sits up and rubs his eyes, and then the realisation hits, his mouth gaping once it registers that Finnick Odair is here, in the carriage, and he’s not dreaming.

Finnick Odair, his long-time hero.

Teddy gasps.

 _“You’re _Finnick Odair!__ ”

"That’s right," Finnick’s nods, delighted, while Annie refrains from rolling her eyes, and Teddy stares at him, catching a few more flies in his mouth. "And you’re… Edward Ellis?"

"Call me Teddy!" His cheeks turn beet red when Finnick nods and repeats it back to him, and Annie can’t help but think that it’s adorable how pleased Teddy is because  _Finnick Odair knows his name._

_Finnick Odair, her soulmate._

"It’s a pleasure to meet you," Finnick says, sounding sincere, directing all his attention on Teddy, who is more than happy to soak it all up.

There’s no trace of the horror on Finnick’s face that existed minutes ago. He acts cool and calm and comfortable as if nothing compromising has happened here and the Timer on his wrist hasn’t suddenly ended its countdown.

Annie wishes she could be disappear. If she could dissolve into a thousand specks of sand, that would be fine by her. In the end, she bottles her emotions and lets Teddy be as enthusiastic as he wants, starry-eyed over his hero, his _favourite_ victor.

Annie figures that being quiet is the closest she’s going to get to being invisible.

 

 

They meet Librae Ogilvy next, her feet stomping well in advance to announce her presence, pink-faced as she opens the door.

"Oh good. Another green eyed one," Librae drawls, sharp and sardonic, as her gaze focuses on Annie, then Teddy, muttering. "Victoria will like that."

"Um," Teddy says, as Annie asks, "Who’s Victoria?"

"One of our beloved stylists,” Finnick explains, seemingly unaffected by the fact that this is the first time Annie has spoken in a while. He’s been a mentor for four years, it makes sense that he’s met a fair share of reticent tributes, and that he answer questions deftly enough. “The other is Regulus. They tend to do costumes that are well received in the Capitol.”

"And she’s hopelessly in love with you, as we all know," Librae rolls her eyes.

"What can I say? I’ve got great eyes," Finnick flutters his eyes at her, smirking at her disgust. "District Four’s speciality."

"Mmhm. Of course it is," Librae clucks her tongue, already disinterested by the topic of conversation. Her expression brightens once she changes tactic, jadedly curious. "So, what do you think of Finn?"

"He’s super great!" Teddy answers instantly.

Annie shrugs.

"Oh, I know the feeling," Librae says darkly, shooting a glare at Finnick, and then after a beat, switches subject again, with a catlike grin and a bubblier tone, asks, "Who’s hungry?"

 

 

The other victors are waiting in the dining carriage, in the middle of a feast. Ron Stafford is glaring at Muscida Selkirk.

"Not until they’ve eaten," Ron says, his frown a permanent fixture. "Not. One. Word."

"Fine," Muscida agrees, relenting. He clears his throat, and looks at them. "The food is great. Have a taco!"

It’s impossible not to feel Mags’ gaze, Annie thinks as she makes her way to the table and seats herself nearby. Annie offers a lukewarm smile in her direction, relieved when the gesture is returned.

It would be nice if she could lose herself in lunch, without the inevitable conversation about the Games or soulmates looming over them.  Especially when Finnick is sitting so close to her. Annie is hyper-conscious of both facts, fighting a losing battle not to feel overwhelmed by either.

Still, Annie hopes that they have an understanding. Annie won’t make any eye contact with him unless strictly necessary, and in return, Finnick won’t ask her any questions.

(And if they ask about — well, only Teddy knows Annie can’t lie for shit.)

For a while, the victors talk about nothing in particular, small trivialities in order to make Annie and Teddy feel relaxed. It doesn’t really work, but, it’s something. Teddy is more than happy to tell them about how Annie is best friends with his big sister Coral. He has plenty of stories to get them into trouble. Annie can’t help but flush, returning the favour with her own anecdotes that don’t show him in the best light, grinning when his round cheeks turn tomato red.

It’s inevitable for a reason, and Annie’s stomach plummets the second Ron grimaces and nods, setting his knife and fork down with a clutter. Muscida takes it as his cue.

"So tell me about your soulmates," Muscida says, without preamble.

"Goddammit, Selkirk, you  _cannot_ help yourself, can you?” Librae snaps, snarls, seethes.

Everyone seems to be oblivious to how Finnick freezes, and Annie hates that she’s acutely aware of that —

"I’m  _curious_ _,_ " Muscida says simply, not in the least daunted. "You know Caesar will ask in the interview stage. So what if I ask the question that everyone wants to know now and not later?”

"Nobody except  _you_   _wants_ to know about soulmates, okay? And if you really wanted to know, you could have done it after we’d finished eating,” Librae says, expression turned thunderous. “Great job, Selkirk. You’ve made me lose my appetite.”

Annie looks down. Her wrist itches. Out of the corner of her eye, Teddy fidgets.

No one says anything for a while, the atmosphere becoming tense once more.

“Um. I’m supposed to meet my soulmate when I’m thirty,” Teddy says, somewhat timidly after Librae’s outburst. He lifts his wrist, and there’s the proof: the years and months and days he still has to wait if he becomes a victor.

"Thirty’s a good age," Muscida says, nodding encouragingly, smiling warmly. Something about the way he speaks makes the topic of soulmates seem not so bad after all, slowly but surely dissipating the tension in the room. “You’ll have an entire life to live before you meet them. You get to thrill them with your stories, and vice versa.”

Put like that, it’s almost pretty. Coral would have enjoyed Muscida’s perspective, Annie can’t help but think, like Teddy does at this moment, who is nodding enthusiastically, eyes bright, if only Coral was still waiting to meet her soulmate, still dreaming hopefully, hopelessly.

Muscida turns his attention to her. “What about you, Annie?”

"I…" Annie stutters as she begins, her face growing red as words fail to emerge. She feels distinctly uncomfortable, desperate not to give herself away by looking to the person on her left. Her hands settle on her thigh, and Annie bites her tongue, not trusting herself to speak. She deliberately obscures the Timer on her wrist, and thinks of Neptune instead. She thinks of the way his mouth shaped the words _I love you_ against her heart.

Back then, she’d been so certain that her chest would burst of happiness. But her heart hammers against her ribs in this moment, driven by an overriding sense of misery.

"Hey. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to," Finnick says, shrugging, sounding disinterested, even.

Nothing betrays him, Annie thinks, her eyes wide, as she glances at him. She didn’t expect him to speak. If she wasn’t there to witness their Timers going off, she would have never have guessed their newfound connection, as decided by a device. It scares her a little, how opaque he is. Grateful, too.

She looks at Teddy; Teddy looks back, unable to hide the curiosity in his face. But there’s sadness there too.

“No, it’s… alright,” Annie says, softly, deciding that she should try to prepare herself for the time when it’s Flickerman’s turn to ask. She might not be a gifted liar, but better having a practiced response than nothing. A half-truth is better than nothing. Under the table, her hand covers her Timer, and Annie steels herself as she looks at Muscida. “I’m meant to meet my soulmate soon.”

“I see,” Muscida says, the intrigued expression on his face an avid reminder of busybodies in the marketplace, and people that her mother did not care for in the slightest. “ _Very_ interesting.”

To her relief, he doesn’t ask any further questions, nor spin her a tale that has a dreamish quality to it.

"Tell me about your strengths," Mags says, before Muscida has the chance to follow up, and swiftly exchanges one inevitable and uncomfortable subject for the other.

Annie is quick to point out that Teddy’s skill lies with knives.

 

 

"I’d paint you red if I could," Victoria tells her with a wide smile, purple lips waxy and bright. She makes no introductions for herself, but Annie recognises Victoria as she saunters through the door, and circles around her for inspection. "Your eyes would look even lovelier."

"I don’t think that would be a good idea," Annie mumbles, lowering her eyes. It hurts to look at Victoria, who exudes so much colour that Annie feels even more washed out than before.

"Next time, perhaps," Victoria concedes, slipping her disappointment away as easily as discarding a coat. "There’ll be another green-eyed tribute."

"Or victor," Annie insists, thinking of Teddy.

Victoria smiles and nods at her, her serene countenance almost otherworldly. "Or victor, yes. But that comes later."

Teddy doesn’t have green eyes. He’s too much like his sister, flaxen haired and blue eyed, slight but wiry. Still, Annie hopes that he’s having a better time with Regulus than she is with her stylist.

"I love the sea," Victoria says, idly, handing Annie her robe. Humming, she makes an approving nod, clearly coming to some conclusion. "Yes. What I have in mind for your opening ceremony costume will be very evocative of that. And with your eyes, you will look… exquisite."

 

 

Her hair gets chopped short, short, short. Her hair is no longer a veil that creeps down her shoulders, or a monster that will stream in every direction whenever she’s submerged underwater.

Annie can’t stop touching her neck, stunned, unused to not having long hair. It’s been so long since it’s been _this_ short. Her neck feels strange and lonely and cold without her wavy tresses.

It’s called a bob cut, and it’s very popular in the Capitol. Or so Victoria tells her.

“I don’t mind, really,” Annie says, mildly, as her fingers slip through her hair, reflexively. It’s so much easier to reach hair this way. Her neck looks slim like this. “I’ll get used to it soon enough. I can adapt.”

“Well, I think that you look very pretty Annie,” Teddy says when he sees her, after his jaw drops. His own hair is combed and neatened and not so different to the mornings when he actually takes the time to brush his hair.

The glitter is new, Annie thinks, when she notices it upon further inspection. So are the white frosted tips, not so different from her own.

“Thanks,” Annie says, tweaking his nose and laughing when he bats her hand away. “I like your new hairstyle too.”

Her neck feels exposed.

 

 

Victoria and Regulus turn them into the sea. They wear willowy white clothes that fade into turquoise blue, a dress for Annie, a toga for Teddy. Once the chariots start moving, their clothes will have a rippling effect, the darkening turquoise dependent on the shadows. Their hair glitters, streaked white. They are adorned with green eyeshadow.

It’s not a bad look, all things considered. District Four has had worse.

Before the chariot rides begin, Annie hugs Teddy tightly. She’ll look after him. For Coral. For her own sanity.

"Annie," Teddy says, his voice muffled and pressed against her shoulder. "I’m really…"

“I know,” Annie says, quiet, drawing back. She takes hold of his hand, squeezes it. “I am too. Just remember what Mags said.”

“We’ll get through it together,” Teddy nods, lifting his head high.

“Yeah,” Annie smiles. “I won’t let go if you won’t.”

Her thoughts turn to Neptune as she looks out into the crowd. Wonders if Jones has placed his bets on her, or if he knows what her endgame plan is already.

Annie doesn’t think about after. She won’t let herself.

Instead, she smiles, waves, puts her brave face on.

Her parents would like that.

 

 

When they’re reunited with the victors, Mags nods approvingly at Annie, Ron says that she did good. Librae and Finnick tell Teddy similar things.

She tries to breathe.

 

 

Finnick shows her how to change the walls into whatever she wants, and Annie transforms her room into the sea, pretending that they’re sitting on the bottom of the ocean floor. She laughs when she notices that Finnick’s face is blue because of it, and he grins at her with blue teeth.

It’s nice.

Until it’s not. 

"So," Finnick says, and Annie tenses, her stomach filling up with dread, the memory of their Timers ringing together pushed to the forefront.

She was never going to be ready for this conversation. No matter how unavoidable it was. This is the only privacy they might ever have. The only time they’ve ever been alone.

Brave face, Annie thinks to herself, bracing herself.

"Soulmates."

It sounds like a curse.

"Yeah," Annie says, her voice empty and hollow, feeling like she’s been sucker punched. All her adrenaline has faded away, and she’s too exhausted to fake another smile. "So it would seem."

Finnick clears his throat. “When did you —”

"Yesterday," Annie interrupts, flatly.

You only get one chance at finding your soulmate. Maybe she should have ripped it off the second the Timer became part of her. Lived what little life she had left blessed without that knowledge. Maybe that would have been better. How would Flickerman have handled the situation then? It’s a well-known fact that Caesar Flickerman ends his interview with a question about the tribute’s soulmates. Why else would it be mandatory to have them?

(Besides sponsors congratulating themselves for being inner romantics at heart and invest in a star-crossed love.)

Annie looks down, presses her shoulders to the wall, and admits in a sullen voice, “I was hoping that it would be a tribute.”

It didn’t matter from which district. It’s hard to form attachments to someone she’s only going to know for three days, then two weeks, give or take. It’s difficult to call someone you’re supposed to care about and let them die anyway your destined other.

At least in Annie’s mind.

It’s been less than a day since Annie met Finnick, and her feelings towards him are nebulous at best.

Finnick whistles in response.

He says, glib. “You really know how to bruise an ego.”

A lot of people would have loved to be Finnick Odair’s soulmate, Annie knows.

Even so, Annie’s just being honest.

"I didn’t want to know who my soulmate was," Annie shrugs, leaning her head back, and looks at the ocean ceiling. Tries to imagine the sunlight above the water. That she’s drowning. "Do we even know that they really work?"

Absently, Neptune’s anguished words echo in her head.

"Ron’s going to love you if you answer any of Muscida’s questions like that," Finnick snorts, face transforming into a fond smile. He closes his eyes, delighted by the thought. "I can see it already."

Muscida is like Coral, then. Who she used to be. Speaking from experience, Annie asks, "Doesn’t it give you a headache?" 

“Oh, it _does,”_ Finnick says, his sea green eyes glittering beneath ebony lashes. “Muscida wants to talk about soulmates, and Ron wants to talk about strategy, and it’s all very confusing who I’m supposed to root for.”

Annie bites her tongue. Lets go of her annoyance. That’s not what she meant at all.

“What do we do about… this?” Annie deliberates, careful with her word choice, ignoring most of what Finnick had just said. “Our situation?”

"Do you want me to decide our tragic love affair?" Finnick grins, like he’s unable to help but make light of it.

"Don’t be so dramatic," Annie frowns. It’s not a tragic love affair at all. Nobody needs to know about it. Nobody should. The thought sobers her, like she’s been doused in water. "You’re the one with the reputation, Finnick. You need to think about that. About what happens now and after."

She can’t say the word. She’s spent so long not believing that it's hard to start. 

"Sounds like you have it planned out already," Finnick says, head cocked to the side, as he observes her. There’s something different about the way that he regards her now, oddly serious.

"There’s a plan," Annie affirms, allowing herself to accept her fate in increments so that she can slowly come to terms with her grief, her heartbreak, her inevitable death. It doesn’t have a whole lot to do with soulmates. "I just have to stick to it."

It’s so simple. Protect Teddy. Damn the consequences. That’s all she has to do.

“Plans have a tendency to go awry,” Finnick states, no judgement in his voice. So matter of fact.

"I’ll adapt," Annie says simply, head held high to that he can see her determination. She’s not stupid. Stubborn, yes, but not stupid. "Are we done?"

"Nope," Finnick says, popping the ‘p’. "Not yet. I wanted to know how you were doing."

Annie touches the back of her neck. She hasn’t been able to stop herself, checking it from time to time, still surprised at its new length. She thinks of Jones. Sighs.

“I think I’m doing okay,” Annie says, and means to leave it at that, but her heart aches, and she misses her family and friends and she can’t stop herself from talking. “Actually. No, I’m not. I’m nervous. Scared. Terrified, in fact.”

Her shoulders fall.

"That’s what your mentor is here for," Finnick says, turning up the charm, incredibly charismatic. "I can tell you right now that everything in the next few days is going to be a breeze.  It’ll be a cinch."

"Bullshit," Annie replies instantly, and bursts out laughing. She’s hysterical, Annie thinks, and tries not to hear the desperation shading her voice each time she breathes for air.

"Isn’t it?" Finnick grins, his teeth so very sharp, so very blue.

Annie wrinkles her nose, disdainful. “How often does that line actually work?”

"Depends on how much the person likes me," Finnick admits, his voice turning back to normal, a less flirty cadence.

Teddy would have believed him.

Annie leans her head back and closes her eyes. Exhales. “So if that’s what my mentor would say, what would my soulmate say?”

Finnick doesn’t answer. Not immediately. Not for a while. 

Eventually, Finnick asks, curious, “What would you _want_ your soulmate to say?”

Great. Her question has been redirected, like holding a mirror to the sun. That’s exactly what she didn’t want.

Later, she’ll wonder if she’s grateful that he phrased it exactly as he did, or if she’s sad it had to be asked so carefully.

"I don’t know," Annie admits, finally, stretching her legs. "Maybe a lie. Maybe the truth."

She needs a mentor more than she needs a soulmate. Someone to teach her how to face death with a smile on her face. To say to all the watchers that today is a good day to die. To teach her how to make sure that Teddy got through unscathed.

"Well, if you don’t know, then how am I supposed to know?" Finnick asks, smiling like he’s made a joke.

Annie shrugs. She doesn’t really care either way.

Coral had said that having a soulmate meant that there was some intrinsic connection between them, that even her disappointment couldn’t take away. But to Annie, there is no intrinsic connection, Finnick is still a stranger, the furthest things a soulmate should be, by Coral’s definition.

"What are we meant to do with soulmates anyway?" Annie asks, suddenly. Now that she has one, what is meant to happen next?

Knowing who your soulmate is just a piece of knowledge. It isn’t worth any practical value.

"Fuck knows," Finnick lets his shoulder drop, sighing. “I think it’s a sign that destiny wants two people to meet at a specific point in our lives."

"And then what?" Annie muses, digging her heels to the ground. Should she really spend her week trying to get to know him? To be a footnote in his history? What the fuck is a soulmate anyway?

"And then anything," Finnick mulls, considering it carefully. Still a bronze beauty at his most thoughtful. "Anything that happens next is up to us. A soulmate can be anything you want them to be. So, what do you want me to be?"

Again, it’s up to Annie to choose, to lay out the terms, to navigate their tenuous connection.

She wants her parents. She wants Coral. She wants Neptune.

Annie curls into herself. Pushes her knees into her chest. Lets the tears fall.

"A friend," Annie decides, at last, her head buried in her arms, voice muffled. Her brave face has long been discarded in these watery depths of hell.

"Okay," Finnick says, warm and comforting and gentle, and suddenly there besides her, reaching out to support her, his arm around her shoulders. It’s the first time Annie can feel like she’s able to trust him, and she leans into him, wanting to be held as she cries. "I can be exactly that."

The relief she feels is overwhelming.

 

 

There was this boy Annie once knew. Jacob something, Annie recalls. They shared a class together at the Academy. He got his Timer the day he turned twelve, came to school proud as hell that he only had ten days to wait. Didn’t care for love, just wanted a best friend. And that’s exactly what he got: a best friend forever called Lysander. A few years later he started dating this girl called Cecilia, and as far as Annie knew, they were happily in love.

Even though Coral had turned up her nose at the news and told Annie that it was inevitable that the non-soulmate relationship would end, and the soulmates would fall in love, Annie had thought back to the days Jacob had been excited in wanting nothing more than a best friend, and shook her head. Told Coral that she was wrong.

It could be done, Annie remembers, waking up and scouring through her memories. It’s not an impossible feat, just an uncommon one, contrary to popular belief.

She could have a soulmate and be in love with someone else.

Thing is, Annie had never wanted to know her soulmate in the first place.

 

 

In the morning, Mags and Ron are there at the breakfast table, ready to prepare them and to go over what they’re supposed to do for the next few days.

"Check out the stations. Pick up some techniques," Ron advises them, shovelling his mouth with toast that smells strongly of whiskey.

"Make sure you keep an eye on the other Careers. Tell us if you want to make an alliance with them," Mags says, no-nonsense. "You’ve already seen them last night, and you’ve got two more days to think about it, so you don’t have to make up your minds right away."

"What about in the Arena?" Teddy says, wary.

"It’s possible," Mags nods, her smile a grim line. "But they’ll be more suspicious of you then."

"I always figured it would be the other way around," Annie murmurs, slicing a pear methodically, first into quarters, then the skin. "At least in the Arena, you don’t have to play nice."

"Point," Ron agrees, wiping his mouth. "It depends on the games and the tributes more than anything else."

"Consider your options," Mags advises, her head inclined. "Take a good look at your potential allies, think of the possibilities before you form a concrete plan."

"Where’s the other victors?" Annie asks, scanning the room as the clock ticks by and it becomes apparent that neither Librae nor Muscida nor Finnick are going to wish them luck. She’s not sure whether it’s a relief or not that it’s only two victors with them now, instead of all four like it was in the train carriage.

"Let’s see… Librae’s only just woken up. I saw Muscida leave; he wanted to talk to some sponsors. I’m not certain about Finnick,” Theo answers, undiscernible to tell whether he veers on being annoyed or not. He looks flawless and impeccable as always, only drawing attention to himself when it’s necessary. "I didn’t catch him this morning, so it could be either."

"He’s up," Mags informs him. "He wanted to get an early start."

"Well, there we have it," Theo smiles, serene. He clicks his fingers. "There’s no need to worry, they’ll be back for dinner.”

"And then regret that you ever did," Librae yawns, stumbling forward as she makes herself walk towards the table and fails to navigate around several pieces of furniture. She yawns again as she sits down and grabs an orange, digs her thumb into the skin. "But that’s Finnick for you."

 

 

"It’s just you and me, Ted," Annie says as they make their way down, never one for silent elevator rides. "Think you’re up to it?"

"Scout and acquire," Teddy says, and it’s cute enough to make Annie grin.

She ruffles his hair, pleased. "Got it in one."

 

 

It’s impossible not to feel scanned and assessed as she makes her way to the incomplete circle, the number four stuck like a target on her back.

Annie’s had enough time to look bored, and with an impassive expression, she directs her gaze at the non-Career districts. When she meets the eyes of the Careers, she trades her contempt to curiosity. Almost intrigued.

 

 

"Survival or technique?" Teddy asks, as they flit around the stations together, still undecided. They speak in hushed voices, careful not to be overheard. "Ron made me promise I’d follow your lead."

"Don’t you always?" Annie teases gently, absentmindedly. Even quieter, she asks. "When did he do that?"

"Just before we left for the elevator," He admits, embarrassed.

Annie hums, noncommittal. “Okay. Let’s do survival. I want to try out my memory.”

As it turns out, she’s pretty bad at it.

Teddy is much better. Annie scowls.

 

 

"How about knots next?" Teddy suggests, a smug expression on his face.

"Knots?" Annie raises an eyebrow. "You _don’t_ want to try the trident like the Great Finnick Odair?"

"Shut up!" Teddy hisses, flushing. "He doesn’t call himself that."

“He does,” Annie deadpans. “I could not believe my ears.”

“I’m not listening! Not listening!”

"Alright, fine," Annie says, grinning impishly. She starts moving towards the knots section. "We’ll leave the tridents for another day. But really, Ted, you have _such_ a crush on Finnick Odair."

"Annie," His cheeks grow flushed, and Ted crosses his arm, as he looks at her with a serious expression. "It’s Finnick Odair. How can you  _not?_ ”

"Good point," Annie nods, pretending to agree with him. She slows her pace as she mulls over an appropriate response that will no doubt annoy him. "But his _face_ …"

He gapes. “How can you say that? I will tell Finnick myself!”

"About his face?" Annie can’t hold back a grin, just about able to refrain from laughing, enjoying this brief moment to wind him up. "Yeah, I think he’ll be really surprised to know that he has one."

Receiving Teddy’s death glare is worth it.

 

 

Someone’s watching them.

It takes a while for Annie to realize that it’s the District One tributes. They’re big and burly and make everything a show to prove how good they are with their weapons and successfully intimidate the others.

It’s a standard strategy from the Career districts. Especially when the Gamemakers start to appear.

Teddy hasn’t said anything about potential allies. Annie isn’t sure what to make of them just yet.

 

 

"I’m Lorenzo," The tribute from District Two says at lunch, introducing himself by passing the District Four bread to them. "Hi."

"Ren, good grief, Ren," The other tribute says, rolling her eyes and not even bothering to muffle her exasperation. "We’re not here to make friends."

“ _I_  am,” Lorenzo replies, affronted. “ _I_ happen to  _like_ talking to new people, Juno.”

"That’s nice," Juno snarks, still unimpressed. "So you know what to say before you kill them?"

"Whoa, whoa. _That_ is uncalled for," Lorenzo opens his mouth, like he’s shocked that she’d say something like that. He turns back to Annie, shaking his head. "Nothing so crude. I just think that I might as well get to know what the other tributes are like before I bite it, or they do."

"Still sounds pretty dumb to me," Juno states, examining her fingernails.

"That’s ‘cause you’re not fun," Lorenzo retorts.

"I’m just telling you how it is," Juno shrugs, unreadable. "That chattiness is going to be the end of you."

"So be it," Lorenzo chuckles, unfazed. The corners of his mouth curl. "Just don’t be the cat that cuts off my tongue."

"Don’t tempt me," Juno says darkly.

Annie exchanges glances with Teddy. She’s pretty sure the expression doesn’t go like that. Might be a District Two thing.

"Your point?" Annie says, blunt, fairly certain that these two could bicker until the sun goes down.

"Yeah, what do you guys want?" Teddy says, trying out a tough guy voice.

Annie represses a sigh.

"Oh!" Lorenzo stops, and then grins as he looks at them, still with a friendly veneer. "Yeah. I wanted to see if you two were interested."

Again, Annie and Teddy look at each other.

 ”Well,” Annie drawls, “I hate to say it, but you’re no Finnick Odair.”

Juno snickers. “Definitely not.”

“Good one,” Lorenzo smiles, but it’s strained. “What I actually meant is if you’d like to form an alliance?”

"Oh," Annie says, delicately, with a pause. "Can we get back to you on that one? We need some time to think it over."

"Sure, sure,” Lorenzo nods, affable again, relaxing, “I just wanted to give you two a head’s up. You guys look like you’d be neat allies."

"What about District One?" Teddy asks, briefly flicking his gaze to where they are.

Juno grins. “You leave that to me.”

It’s not a particularly pleasant grin.

 

 

They try again at the memory plant test.

"I’ll be better," Annie narrows her eyes, huffing. "This time, I swear."

Teddy laughs. Cheers for her nonetheless.

Her next score is a marginal improvement.

 

 

It may be stupid, but Annie really thought that the camouflage and painting station would be easier than it is. Her ability is limited to painting amateur bracelets on her wrist, on Teddy’s, and tell him that what she’d really like to do is paint whiskers on his face.

"So I look like a cat?" He asks sceptically.

"Please," Annie shakes her head. "So you look like a  _seal.”_

 _"Annie,_ " Teddy groans, one emotion shuttering on his face to another, and settles into astonishment when he notices too late. "Annie, your  _wrist.”_

"What about it?" She tries to sound calm. Indifferent.

"You found your soulmate," Teddy looks at her with wide eyes, mouth open.

Frankly, Annie is surprised that the sound of the Timers going off didn’t wake him up, but then Teddy has always been a heavy sleeper.

"Yeah," Annie nods, reluctant to say much. "He seems okay."

"So, what about Neptune?" Teddy asks, confused. “When did you meet your soulmate? When did this happen?”

"I love Jones," Annie says, firmly, washing the paint away, in all its cartoonish glory. She’s too used to drawing cursive lines and intersecting knots to make it seem anything other than ink stains. "That hasn’t changed, Teddy. I haven’t stopped loving him. Don’t think having a soulmate is going to change that, just because I know who mine is now."

Annie can’t keep the anger out of her voice.

She never  _wanted_  a soulmate. But she has one now, regardless.

"Okay?" Teddy says, hurt visible on his face.

Annie sighs. She didn’t mean to lash out at him. It’s just —

It’s uncanny how much he reminds her of Coral right now. How invested she used to get. The unsaid promise hangs over her like a shadow.

Annie hates how much it’s encouraged that soulmates should be romantic. They don’t have to be, Annie knows, but that doesn’t stop a lot of people insisting that it is.

Sometimes she wonders if people forget that having a Timer is just another reminder of how the Capitol controls them. The only difference is that there’s a lower death rate.

“Sorry,” Annie falters, teeth worrying her lip. She rubs her neck and waits for the anger to fade, and speaks softly, apologetic. “Didn’t mean to snap at you, Ted. You know me, I’m not the type of person to fall for someone in less than three days, even if I wasn’t in love with someone else.”

"Wasn’t it love at first sight with you and Neptune?" Teddy inquires, interested.

"No," Annie smiles, recalling the way Neptune grinned time and time against when she peeled the Timer from his inviting skin, and loses herself briefly in reminisce. "I wouldn’t say so. Who told you that? Coral?"

Annie had liked Neptune instantly, liked the look of his cocky smile and how he was sun-soaked and wearing water like a second skin. That much was true.

But there’s a long way between like and love, and it took until the middle of summer to realize that she was in love with Neptune Jones.

“Maybe,” Teddy sticks out his tongue, and Annie laughs. “You know, you still haven’t told me who it is.”

“Later, I promise,” Annie answers, lazily, debating whether to paint Jones’ initials on her body. Somewhere that he liked to kiss. The palm of her hand. The corner of her mouth. The curve of her shoulder. Then wipe it away before anyone has the chance to see.

 

 

"Have you ever skinned a fish?" Librae asks them over dinner. 

"Sure," Annie nods, bemused by the question. "It’s not that hard.”

"Good. You should remember that," Librae says, and Annie stills as the implication hits her a second later.

“At _dinnertime?”_ Theo looks at her in distaste, extremely put out. “Librae, I thought we _discussed_ this.”

"Yeah, I know," Librae scowls, and looks at Mags, who is far more interested in cutting up the steak into tiny squares. "I didn’t say I’m a _great_ mentor, did I? I’m still getting the hang of it, alright?”

"You’re fine,” Ron states, blithe. “You get used to it sooner or later.”

Annie doesn’t remember Librae’s game, but she knows that it happened a few years before Finnick’s.

"So you say, Stafford," Librae sighs, resting her face on her hand, pushing food on her plate. "You keep telling me that, but I haven’t yet."

 

 

There’s something hostile in the way Librae looks at Annie, at Finnick, her mouth twisting like she’s about to throw up.

Annie wonders if Librae knows about them. If Finnick has said something, while Annie tries to avoids any contact with him, preferring to focus on her skillset instead.

Still, it doesn’t stop the fact that at the end of the day, Librae is often a rowdy mess, and tonight she is bickering with Finnick.

"Who am I meant to feel sorrier for?" Librae shouts, raising her voice, like thunder. "The system’s fucked up, Finn, so fucked up!"

If Finnick has an answer, it’s not an immediate one.

 

 

The next day is much like the second.

"You pick," Annie says to Teddy, as the elevator doors open.

“Technique,” Teddy grins, quick to decide.

"Alright."

They’ve both made a promise to not touch the knives until it comes to the Private Session. Well, the plan is that Teddy’s going to use the knives when it comes to the Gamemakers. Annie is more a jack-of-all-trades, average in everything, but moderately capable all the same. It doesn’t matter if Annie touches the knives; her aim is always slightly off. Especially when it counts.

It doesn’t matter if that’s part of her con anyway, to perform less impressively while the tributes are watching her.

She spends the majority of the first half on the climbing frames, so she can have an eagle’s eye view on the other tributes.

Philomena from District One catches her, glancing in her direction every once in a while. There’s a steely look on her face, haughty and proud in a way that suggests that pride will be her downfall. She may not like her partner, but there’s something eerily synchronized in the way they move and talk.

Augustus is a brute, there’s no other way of describing him and how he flaunts his abilities in the training centre. He’s bull-headed too, losing his temper at the slightest of things, but he turns red easily, like he’s flattered the way Juno watches him, sinewy and catlike, smiling ever so prettily.

She learns from Teddy that District Five’s tributes are siblings, a year apart, lean and mean, and sharp eyes catching onto quick movements.

District Six’s children are too young. If the odds are in your favour, you might win if you’re fourteen like Finnick was, like Teddy is, but any younger and it’s practically a foregone doom.

In another life, Annie would have liked to be friends with the District Seven Tributes. There’s something remarkable about the way they use the axe that isn’t too dissimilar from handling a knife, a general sense of awe-inspiring, and Annie thinks that perhaps she should give the axe a try.

The girl, Rebecca, prefers to be by herself, and she seems to be the only tribute that is the same age as Annie. Everyone else looks younger than eighteen. Rebecca will fight, Annie thinks, observing her for a moment. The boy, Jason, stays quiet throughout, tending to the shelter station and learning how to stay safe as best he can.

District Eight are useless. It’s clear from the beginning that they’ll be easy pickings. They’ve got no experience in fighting. They look tired, walk with sunken shoulders and dark rings under their eyes, like they’ve only known tiredness their entire lives and won’t fight at all.

District Nine seems to be in the same league of awful. There’s desperation in the way they interact, hardly ever standing still. Annie doesn’t look at them for long. They build fires again and again and nervously, the girl twists her hair into braids, the boy gazes at the flames, riveted. Teddy thinks they might be soulmates.

No one has much hope for the other Districts.

Librae has openly called them fucked, and Annie can see why. They’re all old enough to be successors, varying from fifteen to seventeen, but none of them have the confidence that Teddy has.

It could be a ploy, but Annie very much doubts it. It’s the cold hearted Career in her that scorns the idea of them surviving the bloodbath.

If they live —

If they live, and Annie is there, and if push comes to shove —

She would make it as painless as she could. She wouldn’t draw it out.

Her mother’s voice echoes in the back of her mind. Calm and methodical. _Skin a fish, slice a throat, aim at the centre of their head. Put on your brave face. Play to your strengths. Move on._

Mag’s turn. She clears her throat. _Being in the Arena isn’t always hard, but it’s not easy either. Be alert. Stay smart._

 

 

"Alright, we’re in," Annie says to Lorenzo over lunch, Teddy by her side.

"Awesome," Lorenzo beams. Juno is deep in conversation with the District One tributes.

"What are other tributes like?" Teddy asks, scanning the room.

“Do they all have wonderful personalities?” Annie chimes in, sarcastic.

"Some," Lorenzo snorts. "District Eleven’s in  _particular_  are especially sparkling.”

"Who were the friendliest?" Teddy asks next, intrigued by Lorenzo’s scavenging.

Lorenzo thinks about it before he answers. “Seven. Or Eight.”

"Didn’t the Eights shout at you?" Teddy points out, in disbelief. Annie remembers that incident too.

"They did,” Lorenzo acknowledges, nodding. “Seven decided to be original and so they glared at me without saying a word. Rude."

"Bet you anything the other Careers would have been even friendlier," Annie says, deciding not to feign sympathy.

"Juno would know," Lorenzo sighs, offhandedly. "Well, least I can say that I gave it a go."

"If you survive, you’ll have the footage too," Annie says, nonchalant, and takes a bite out of a fish shaped loaf.

It’s easier to talk about things when they’re only being hypothetical. It’s easier to talk when nobody broaches the topic of soulmates.

 

 

She likes the weight of an axe in her hands. There’s something reliable in how it balances just right that tridents and knives don’t have.

 

 

"Hey," Ron says, cornering Annie and making sure that they’re alone. "What are you planning?"

"Nothing," Annie denies, keeping her voice void of emotion.

"Right," Ron snorts, opening another bottle of beer. "Sure. ‘Course you aren’t. And I’m the village idiot."

Annie says nothing. Ron takes a hefty chug, tipping his head right back and exposing his throat. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Stares at her, hard.

"I know that look, Annie. I’ve seen that same expression on the tributes too many times to count,” Ron states, slowly, each word a weighty measure. “I want to know why it’s on yours."

"What look?" Annie asks, guarded. It doesn’t suit her to play dumb, but it’s a game Annie’s willing to play.

He doesn’t budge.

"I’m talking about that look you get whenever you think Teddy’s not looking," Ron says, his voice steady and calm, a low rumble in his chest. "That look that says you’re prepared to die for him."

"I am," Annie raises her chin, steels her heart, and refuses to yield.

He sighs, shoulders broad as he folds his arms across his chest. “You can’t protect him forever, Annie.”

"I can damn well try," Annie snaps, fierce. She knows that she can’t protect him forever, but as long as she’s still breathing, she won’t stop without a fight.

"If you die, it’ll break his heart," Ron says.

It’s a low blow, but that doesn’t mean that it won’t happen. Some things are just inevitable.

"Better his than mine," Annie folds her arms over her chest, straightening her back, and stares at him defiantly. She mimics his posture as if it’s a challenge. "I made a promise that Teddy is going to survive."

Coral is going to get her little brother back.

He barks out a laugh, one without any humour. He leans forward. Annie doesn’t flinch.

“Fine. Your mind’s made up. I’ll give a few tips before you go.”

 

 

Finnick is there for breakfast, on the third day. He’s meant to be there to wish her luck for the Gamemakers, but he’s too flighty, changing topics and gossip at random. It’s a bit unnerving, though Annie seems to be only one discomforted.

"Why did you let Victoria cut your hair so short?" Finnick asks, not blinking for a second, before gazing at somewhere else.

“Felt like a change,” Annie shrugs. Her hair is still brown. Her eyes are still green. "I’d been meaning to get a haircut anyway."

She only notices later that Finnick stinks of perfume, that his gaze is heavily lidded, that there’s something not quite lucid in his expression.

But he smiles as if he’s fine, and then Teddy distracts her, and the jitters settle for a little bit at least.

 

 

She trains by herself, wanting desperately to be left alone. Not even Teddy can untie the knots in her stomach.

So she trains and she trains and she trains —

Her hands sore, her limbs aching, Annie tries to remember what her brave face is meant to look like.

 

 

Teddy is staring at his knees and Annie’s fingers are threaded in his hair.

"You’ll be fine, Ted," Annie murmurs. 

District Four are lucky that way. They’re one of the first, so the Gamemakers aren’t bored yet and their victors do a great job at making them seem worth sponsoring.

She taps his head. "You going to wish me luck or what?"

 _Play to your strengths,_ _Mags had said before they left for their private session._ _It’s just you and_   _them_.

"Good luck Annie," Teddy says, exactly how Coral would say it, determined not to break.

She smiles, willing herself to relax. Look confident. “You’re going to be fine.”

 

 

Muscida tells them this much:

“You don’t have to be deadly; you just have to be competent. Being a Career is merely a point in your favour. They like you already. All you have to do is confirm that you’re good.”

Hands sore, teeth clenched, Annie Cresta shows them exactly where her talents lie.

She might not be as good as District One or Two, but that doesn’t mean that Annie isn't a force to be reckoned with.

 

 

Teddy comes out all bashful smiles and glowing happiness.

"I think I did okay!"

 

 

They chat about nothing in Annie’s room, sprawled over the bed and imagining they’re lying on a pier with a sunset just out of reach. The Capitol have the image of the sea beneath the sky, all they have to do is close their eyes and dream up the wind in their face.

"Coral would hate it here," Annie says, apropos of nothing.

"Yeah,” Teddy smiles ruefully, his flaxen hair messy again. “She’d complain about the lack of seagulls.”

“She’d probably say something like _no seagulls mean no sea_ ,” Annie agrees, and her heart twinges, missing her best friend.

“Sounds like her,” Teddy murmurs, the duvet rustling as he shifts about. “What about Neptune?”

“Jones?” Annie pauses, her heart skipping a beat. “No, I don’t think he would either. But I’d like it a lot better if he was here.”

"Oh I see how it is," Teddy tries to sound offended, but it’s a weak attempt.

“That’s not what I meant,” Annie rolls her eyes, flicking his forehead. “You know what I meant.”

“Yeah,” Teddy sighs, and Annie wishes that they weren’t tributes, one of them destined to die. “So what about your soulmate?”

"What about him?" Annie asks, voice heavy. Given the choice, she’d still prefer Neptune’s company over Finnick’s.

“It’s later,” Teddy says, “and you still haven’t told me who he is or what he’s like.”

“Teddy…”

“You promised,” Teddy reminds her.

Annie groans. He’s so much like Coral, sometimes. With a brilliant memory. Good at knives. Annoying to boot because he’s avid believer of soulmates. Despite Coral’s disappointment, Teddy is still saving himself for the moment that he meets his destiny. His heart might get broken, but he’s willing to take that chance because it’s meant to be.

“I know I did,” Annie grumbles, “I just. I don’t think it matters.”

“You would,” Teddy rolls his eyes. “You never change. Fine, keep his identity a secret since it doesn’t matter. Tell me what he’s like, at least?”

Annie can certainly _try._

"He’s…" Annie begins, stalling as she stretches the word as much as she can. “Well, he’s…”

How are you supposed to describe Finnick Odair? How are you supposed to describe someone often calls himself the Great Finnick Odair?

Her soulmate is someone Annie never wanted, never counted on destiny wanting them to meet, never really got to know within the past days.

“… eh.”

It’s kind of hard to describe Finnick Odair anyway.

“Eh,” Teddy repeats, dryly, exasperated by Annie’s lack of answer. “That’s it? Seriously?”

“What do you want me to say?” Annie shoots back, growing flustered. “He’s not Jones!”

“Well, I guess that’s all that really matters, in the end,” Teddy sighs, giving in and letting the issue pass.

 

 

"Details!" Finnick says, cheerfully, grinning at them, when they reconvene for dinner. “How’d it go?”

"Okay, I think," Annie nods, avoiding Ron’s gaze. "I did enough."

"What did you do?" Mags inquires, calmly.

Annie shrugs. Keeps it simple. “Used an axe, threw it about.”

Librae clucks her tongue, disappointed. “That’s, like, the bare minimum. It won’t get you much of a high score, but it might be decent, depending on the other Tributes.”

Annie smiles grimly. “That’s the plan.”

"How was yours?" Muscida asks Teddy, smiling warmly at him.

"I went for the knives and showed them how good I could be," Teddy states, proud of himself.

"Wonderful," Mags says, encouraging. "They know District Four has some strong contenders."

Annie grins and ignores the dread that seeps into her heart.

Come hell or high water, Teddy Ellis is surviving the Games.


	5. Ayurnamat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayurnamat - The philosophy that there is no point in worrying about events that cannot be changed.

Librae was drunk the first time she waxed poetic about his soulmate. That she was a girl. That she will never love him the way he wants.

Finnick thinks about what she's added since then, the little throwaway details that mean nothing now, the crooked nose, the scarred hands, the prettiest grin, the wickedest sense of humour, the broken fingernails digging deep into his skin that it becomes raw.

He's been thinking about her words a lot these past few days.

He's slightly tipsy by the time Librae knocks on his door, and he grins like his cheeks don't hurt at all, like he swallowed glass instead of beer, and he can still feel it going down his throat, past his lungs, past his heart. 

He asks her in a throaty voice,  _“_ _Tell me more about her.”_

Her thumb grazes over his wrist, the cursed one with the frozen countdown hidden beneath knots of rope, and she drags him towards his bed. They've practiced the act of caring for each other so well that he can almost believe that it's more than a mockery of everything they hate.

“How drunk are you?" Librae asks, not expecting an answer as she settles in his bed, draping her body over his as she takes the bottle by the stand and takes a sip. It's a familiar, warm weight. Her hand remains on his cursed wrist, and she squeezes without warning, pressing the bracelets that cover his Timer.

It's good that it hurts. It's supposed to.

"Coward," Librae says, murmuring, and Finnick remembers this script of the game they play, filled with wolves’ teeth and sheep's wool. What part is next. "You started without me."

He's meant to smile sheepishly and say,  _I know._

He's meant to say,  _I'm sorry._

Instead, Finnick says, "My soulmate. Tell me more."

"Alright," Librae nods, letting go of him, the air cold between them as she thinks about it.

It would be a lie to say she's completely sober, because he knows her too well and that’s not how it goes. Alcohol makes them both crueller than they should be, but they need this, this strange storytelling. He needs the cruelty Librae brings, and Librae needs to lash out, whenever they talk about soulmates, because it sinks them into more bitterness and cynicism of what will never be.

"She's tall,” Librae begins. “Black hair, dark like midnight. Her skin's not pale; it's burnt by the sun, splashed by the sea. A real sun baby. You could try all you like, but you'll never rid the salt off her skin."

Finnick asks, "How tall?"

"Taller than you," Librae shifts, and settles back onto him, her head on his shoulder, mussing up her hair against the satin sheets. "Yeah, I like the sound of that."

"I'm not that tall," He frowns, staring at the ceiling.

Her nose wrinkles. "Please, Odair. You're tall. She's taller."

"Fine," Finnick acquiesces. A few millimetres taller. Why not? "What about her eyes?"

"Brown," Librae decides instantly. "Brown like mud. Real, brown, rainy day mud. The kind that sticks on your boots forever."

"What an image," Finnick mutters, taking the beer bottle back and raises it to his lips, drains the contents entirely.

Librae snorts. "Isn't it?"

"Tell me more," Finnick says. “What else?”

It's a twisted game they play, always at his expense these days. It's one that Muscida likes to play to pass the time, except that the difference between Muscida and them is that Muscida is nice about it. Finnick's told his own share of horror stories, always aimed to make Librae flinch and lose her temper, and yet, somehow it was never as awful as the truth.

It's a twisted game they play, and if nothing else, Librae and Finnick have always been the kind to grow more bitter and cruel and harsh each time it happens. It's a game where no one wins, and both of them are sore losers.

He closes his eyes, and listens to her voice paint an image.

"Let's see. She'd have to be someone who can put up with your bullshit. Maybe she flirts, just like you. She's quick with words and even more careful still with meanings. She's got that strange precision about her,” Librae pauses, frowning. “Yeah, I've decided. She flirts. She flirts a lot, because she likes the implication far more than something concrete. She laughs all the damn time because she finds everything a big joke. And then she sees you, and she can't stop laughing, because you're the biggest joke she's ever seen."

"Oh?" Finnick opens his eyes and looks at her, eyebrow raised. "Because she can't stand me?"

"Nope," Librae shakes her head a bit too emphatically, her voice beginning to slur. He hands her another bottle. "It's because… because she sees right through you. She's bitter that you're just like her. Implication and gestures and half-truths. Slippery like an eel, the both of you. There's something she doesn't like about that."

Librae sits up then, crossing her legs, pensively looking at the beer in hand. “But she likes you.”

"I thought —"

"Mm, I stand by that. She doesn't," Librae says, words weighted, measured by the taste of alcohol. "But she likes you plenty. Love, though? That's another kettle of fish."

Because Finnick is drunk and tired and far more willing to let people be cruel to him than kind, he repeats himself like a broken record.

"Tell me more."

Librae doesn't say anything for a long time. Seconds pass, then minutes.

When she speaks again, Librae sounds like she's sobering. He hopes not. But there’s a note of resentment that wasn’t there before, that she’s had enough of make pretend.

"She tries,” Librae sighs, sombre. “Bless her, she tries. You two can be narcissists together."

"And then?" Finnick prompts, when the silence goes on too long, and he can tell that the story is coming to an end.

"And then one day it just stops," Librae shrugs, and tilts her head back and down the liquor goes in one big gulp. "She stops trying to love you. Decides that it's a thing that can't be done. She's a bit of a star gazer, that girl of yours, and she's spent years mapping you out like the constellation she watches at night. She's a great fuck, and she knows you to the fibre of your bone, but still, Finn, still she cannot fall in love with you."

What a goddamn tragedy.

It's perfect.

"What do you think?" Librae asks, blonde strands of hair falling on her face, easily brushed back if only he reached out a little bit. He could brush it behind her ear if he really wanted. Librae would bare her teeth at him if he did.

Finnick thinks of Annie Cresta. The quiet, subdued, understated Annie Cresta who won't look at him more than necessary, who stays silent and focuses her attention on Teddy instead.

He laughs, and pretends it’s the alcohol in his system that makes such an ugly sound. That his heart doesn’t twist.

Finnick pushes Librae’s hair behind her ear. Librae bares her teeth at him.

"Not even close."

 

 

There's a part of him, a small, small part of Finnick that's relieved he doesn't know Annie that well — relieved that she keeps everyone and everything at arm's length.

Everyone except Teddy, that is.

Annie is more than willing to tease Teddy when she thinks no one is paying attention to them, murmuring sly comments in Teddy’s ear, making him laugh or roll his eyes. She supported him more warmly than Finnick thought she would, when Teddy scored higher than her earlier tonight. A five's not bad, true, but seven is better.

She lights up around Teddy, and then shuts down whenever he isn't looking.

It's heart-breaking just looking at her.

Teddy's her anchor in a way that Finnick isn't, and could never be. It's clear as water to see that Annie means just as much to Teddy.

So what happens in the Arena, when inevitably, one of the anchors is removed?

 

 

Finnick's not jealous, exactly.

Jealous isn't the right word, at least.

At the end of the day, Annie Cresta is still a stranger to him, albeit one he knows is his soulmate. But he's not especially attached to her.

Annie opened up to him only once. He knows more about her that first night than the days that followed.

Truth be told, he knows more about Philip from last year, Leonora, the year before that, Sophie, the one before that, and Andre, the year before that.

He could ask Teddy about her, if he really wanted. Teddy adores him, so Finnick is sure if he asked, Teddy would tell him willingly. But Finnick doesn’t, lacking the curiosity he thought he would have, when the time came for Finnick to meet his soulmate.

So, no. Finnick's not jealous.

Resigned might be a better word. But he’s not sure that’s it, either.

 

 

What they have is something less that friendship, less that mentorship. What they have is something non-existent. The most he has of her is a glimmer of someone she could have been, brought to light by her interaction with Teddy.

Finnick can't really call himself her friend or mentor when he's done nothing but avoid her.

But he's pleasant enough, he guesses, he only has to act like a friend might, and a role like  _that_  is something he can settle into, like a snake shedding skin. A role like that is simple. Effortless, even.

Make 'em laugh, and you're half-way there.

 

 

(He's done that, at least. He can say he made her laugh.)

 

 

Like any day Finnick and Librae make the decision to get shit-faced and pass out together, they hate the morning afterwards.

They don’t start talking to each other until they’ve at least had a bite of toast. But they amble together, uncaring if they bump into things along the way.

"If you let Victoria have her wicked way with you, you'd look flawless in seconds," Librae mumbles, head bowed and blowing into the coffee mug. Talking shit, as usual.

"Tonight I'm not the star of the show," Finnick reminds her, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

"Maybe not, but at least then you'd be something pretty to look at," Librae grumbles, retorting quickly, her mouth set to a frown. At a squint, it's more like a pout.

"You say that like you didn't spend last night with me," Finnick lifts an eyebrow. He could go on, say that she slept like a log, just as heavy too, and when he woke up, it was her arms draped around him…

"A terrible mistake, really. Have you seen yourself in this morning? You look like a disaster," Librae deadpans, deciding to brave the heat and take a gulp, never mind the coffee burn. She makes a face.  _"Fuck."_

"One day," Finnick promises, smirking. “We’ll get there.”

She glares at him, unamused. Hangover death glares are Finnick's favourite kind.

"Five minutes," Mags tells them as she joins for breakfast, Theo and Regulus following behind. Finnick knows the drill. They've woken up early so their tributes don't catch them discussing what to do next. By now it's customary for Finnick and Librae to get drunk the night before and somehow wake up earlier than everybody else.

Finnick winces. "Maybe not so loud, Mags?"

Theo's grin is crisp, and he takes extra care to pronounce and enunciate his words far clearly than he normally would. "Of course."

 

 

It's decided early on that Librae will talk to Teddy.

"Try not to be jealous that you don't have your admirer," Librae quips.

"Try not to be jealous that I'm all he'll talk about," Finnick retorts, just as quick.

Teddy's admiration of him is sweet. It's a little much at times, but still, endearing. In any case, admiration is something that Finnick knows how to be at ease with, how to charm and smile. Puppy-like admiration is familiar territory that Finnick is more than capable to handle.

"Please. Four hours with me and he won’t be so starry eyed," Librae scoffs.

"That's funny, it's been four days, and I'm still his favourite," Finnick banters back, unable to resist the jab. It's easy to act like this. Being petty and pretending that this is the most important part. It's stupid, but addictive, and being at the Capitol makes them pricklier than they usually are.

As for Annie Cresta —

The door opens, and Finnick's thoughts are forgotten as Teddy, Victoria and Annie enter.

"… yes, I’m definitely right. Red would suit you quite well. I may not be able to paint you, but there's always the more conventional method. The effect would be the same as intended; your eyes would be so lovely," Victoria says, her voice deep and ethereal as always, as she watches Annie unblinkingly. Her mouth nearly smiles.

To anyone who isn't used to Victoria, it can be quite an eerie effect.

Annie stares, definitely still unused to Victoria’s mannerisms. Eventually, she nods, awkward. "If you say so."

"You'll love it, I can just tell. It's very flattering," Victoria murmurs, either oblivious or uncaring, Finnick has never been able to discern which. Finnick can tell the exact moment when she notices him, dark eyes glossy, lips parting to shape words. "Good morning Finnick."

"Victoria," He nods, and then directs his attention to the tributes. "How are you guys feeling?"

Teddy beams, a bit too cheerful for the morning, but it’s the effort that counts. Maybe it's the hangover still in effect that causes Finnick to wince. Theo will teach Teddy how to win the crowd's favour, at any rate, and Librae will take care of the rest.

Annie shrugs. "Nervous."

"It'll be fine," Mags tells her, warmly, soothingly. "They love you already."

"Don't worry," Ron says, voice rumbling, pulling up a chair for her. "I've got your back."

 

 

Finnick's job is to think of reasons why sponsors should support District Four's tributes.

Instead, he's hanging out with Cashmere and Gloss. The way he sees it, he's worked hard these past three days, so on the fourth day, he deserves a break. He's got nothing to do but wait, might as well spend it with some people he can stand.

"Anything but the games," Finnick pleads, weary, bone-tired. The feeling settles on his shoulders, and never really goes away whenever he’s in the Capitol. "We've got two weeks to talk about that. So talk to me about everything else. Anything else."

"Fine," Gloss nods, his jaw doing that jaw thing it's always done. "Cash, you want to tell him how it's going with Enobaria?"

"Not especially," Cashmere says, catlike and curled up on the sofa. Her scowl mars her beautiful face, and tells Finnick exactly what he thought.

"Out of all the people to fall in love with," Finnick says, breathing out a sigh and tilting his head, "I would have never guessed her."

"Because she tore out her own soulmate's throat out with her teeth?" Cashmere says, flatly, eyes narrowed and vicious. "C'mon, Finnick, you know what it’s like in there."

"I know. You do what you have to do to survive. Look, I'm sure she's lovely, once you get to know her," Finnick concedes, shrugging. He doesn’t hold it against Enobaria. They’re all Career Tributes. He understands. "It must be a District Two thing, is the thing. I never got taught how to be a showman to that degree."

"Don't sell yourself short," Gloss smirks, his expression absurdly fond. "You did adequately well."

" _Adequately well?"_  Finnick puffs his chest out, feigning offence. "I did  _more_ than  _adequately well._ ”

"You're right, Finn. They don't call you the Great Finnick Odair for nothing," Cashmere rolls her eyes, humouring him.

Finnick fails on both accounts trying to suppress his surprise or the fact that he's really pleased that his self-appointed title has finally achieved universal recognition. He used it once during his interview, but after the first year, people forgot about it, moved on.

"Who calls me that?" Finnick asks, pleased and a little bit embarrassed.

Without missing a beat, Gloss answers, "Snow, mostly."

Cashmere laughs.

On some level, Finnick is certain that he expected Gloss to give him an answer like that to knock him down a peg or two. It still takes a second for the words to register, and another to find the words to talk.

"That's  _low_ , Gloss," Finnick manages to say at last, while Gloss remains cool and stoic, though the corner of his mouth twitches.

"Like you weren't setting yourself up for a fall," Gloss points out, reasonably.

"Still," Finnick grins. Gloss isn't one to tell jokes. He has a few witty retorts, once in a blue moon, but usually nothing as brazen as this. "Even for you, that's _low_."

Gloss shrugs, not particularly repentant about it.

He says, "You caught me at a bad time."

"What happened?" Finnick asks, concerned. His gaze slides over to Cashmere, who glowers.

“ _Nothing_ happened. We're just glad we don't have anything to do today," Cashmere answers curtly, standing up and smoothing out the folds of her dress. "Don't you usually spend today in the Jacuzzi?"

"I don't spend  _all day_  in the Jacuzzi. Sometimes I have company," Finnick says defensively, before an idea takes hold and he flutters his eyelashes at Gloss. "Interested?"

At this, Gloss' stoicism breaks away and reveals a fantastic grin. It's a binding effect, enhanced by his jawline. "Another time."

"Suit yourself," Finnick shrugs, dropping the act, and wishes that he could stay here forever, as a shadow, as dust, as nothing. He's going out of his skin, out of his mind, and no matter what he does, he can't rid himself of this restlessness.

"What are you here for, Finn?" Cashmere says, eyes bright and intently focused on him. It's not something she does very often, but Cashmere can be intense when she wants to be, making it difficult for anyone to deny her when she is at her most striking. Finnick recognises those tactics, since they are kindred spirits, but it’s not a pleasant thought. “How can we help?"

The thing is, he _could_ tell them.

He knows they'd understand, because they've taken him under his wing, because the Timers on their wrists damned them too. They don't talk about it to just anyone, Finnick knows, having only found out last year, and only then because they got spectacularly drunk. They are siblings who are close to each other, fiercely devoted and protective, and that’s all they will ever be. Anyone would be _that_ close if they won the Games and were family. It’s just bad luck that —

If Finnick told him, he knows that Gloss and Cashmere wouldn't judge him.

He doesn't say,  _I don't know my soulmate, and I don't want to._

He doesn't say,  _I don't know my soulmate, but I don't want to watch her die._

He doesn't say,  _I don’t know my soulmate, and every chance I got, I chose to avoid her._

He says, "I needed to get away for a little while."

 

 

There are cupcakes on the table when Finnick gets back. Pretty and bright and vibrant and sugary-sweet, sickening as they are delightful.

Ron doesn't even like sweet things.

And yet he makes an exception for chocolate every time.

Finnick asks, "How's Aemelia?"

Ron heaves out a sigh, the same annoyed sigh that occurs whenever the topic of soulmates reaches his ears.

"The same as always," Ron says, dispassionate. "I still can't stand her, but she’s still a fantastic baker."

"Did she happen to bake some cookies this time?" Librae asks, Teddy in tow, Annie in heels, not far behind, followed by Muscida.

"Only because she likes you," Ron rumbles. He frowns at the plate of cookies in distaste. "Look at all those bright colours. How does that not hurt your eyes?"

"You don't complain when it's chocolate-chipped," Muscida notes, though even that is enough to warrant a scowl from Ron.

"Oh I do. I might eat them, but I still don't like it much," Ron says, grumpily.

"Then why eat them?" Teddy asks, taking a bite of a green frosted cupcake. Lemon-flavoured, by the looks of it. No wonder Ron won't touch them. He makes a pleasantly surprised sound, eyes lighting up. "This is really good!"

Ron shrugs. "A couple of reasons. It limits conversations, for one. Two, my soulmate always wants me to try her confectionary out, won’t let me leave without some feedback, and take samples for you lot. Three, back when we dating, I made a promise to always visit her this time of the year, and even though we haven’t dated for a _very_ long time, the promise still holds, like it or not. And four, Mags likes petit fours, so.”

The year Finnick won, Aemelia had baked peeps. Marshmallow candy in the shape of a baby bird. He'd liked that the sugar coating was almost like glitter, difficult to rub off. He'd kept licking his lips and tasting it on his tongue the entire journey home.

He hasn't asked for them since the year he turned sixteen.

"Annie, try this one!" Teddy says, grabbing a purple frosted cupcake and handing it to her, almost shoving.

"Okay, okay," Annie nods, smiling softly, accepting the cupcake with delicateness, and takes a bite. She swallows, and she sounds happy. "That's delicious!"

"As much as I don't like Aemelia, she's a terrific cook, with a penchant for sweets," Ron says, discarding the marshmallows from a chocolate cupcake onto a pile. Librae snatches them up greedily.

"One day." Muscida hums, and only Librae and Finnick look at Ron, with matching smirks, who is visibly restraining himself from losing his temper. Annie and Teddy are intent on enjoying the cupcakes.

"It didn't work out, Muscida," Ron says through gritted teeth. Old scripts, old arguments, old words. Finnick wonders why they go through this every year. And yet, Ron sounds exactly as annoyed and frustrated as he always does whenever Muscida breaches the subject. “ _Enough already.”_

The truth is, if you put Ron and Aemelia in a room together, there will be non-stop shouting matches that are pleasant for nobody. They don’t get along, simply put. It’s a miracle that they’re soulmates, but somehow no one can inspire Aemelia like Ron does, even if eight out of nine times, it’s because he infuriated her. Soulmates are weird that way, maybe.

“Only if there's an excellent desert," Muscida concedes, reaching for a marzipan pig.

Finnick grins. "Since when has Aemelia ever disappointed?"

 

 

Mags asks later, "How were Gloss and Cashmere?"

"Good," Finnick says, smiling, "Marcellus and Priscilla were taking care of their tributes this year, but they've decided to be a more active mentor next year."

"Finn," One word should not have so much power, coupled with the strength of her gaze. Mags may have sharpened his teeth and taught him how to be a better liar, and he may have a silver tongue these days, but Finnick can never lie to her.

"I hate this part, Mags, you know that," Finnick shifts on his feet, takes a breath instead of stepping back. Every year, he hates this part.

Anyone else would have deflected his response with a joke, like it's the interview he's worried about. Sure it is. Sure, okay. He wants the spotlight all for himself. He's the Great Finnick Odair, after all. Golden boy of the Capitol. He can't have anyone else steal away everyone's attention, the secrets they might have.

"I know you do, Finn," Mags says gently, sadly, touching his arm. "But we still have a job to do."

"Yeah," Finnick sighs, head bowed, despondent. He knows how it goes. Rinse and repeat. This year, next year, the year after that too.

It would be a cruel lie to say it gets easier next time. It would be a cruel truth to admit he's slowly becoming desensitized to it.

And Mags — Mags has gone through this process so many times. He nearly asks her, like he did the first year, when he'd gotten attached to Andre, how she was able to do it, year after year after year.

He's nineteen now. He should be used to it.

"I'm tired, is all," Finnick says, breaking away. He lifts his shoulder and lets it drop. "Think I’ll get some sleep now. Night, Mags."

 

 

Caesar Flickerman likes District Four. Why wouldn't he? District Four's Careers have been groomed since the beginning to be pleasant and charming. They can't rely on the overt strength and brutality that District One and Two tend to have.

Caesar Flickerman likes all the tributes, even the forgettable and doomed ones, because in those three minutes, he brings their personality to life, even if that tribute perishes instantaneously in the bloodbath. For three minutes, he can flesh out the tributes personality, even if they are untalented or uninteresting in the actual Games.

Three minutes is a hell of a lot shorter than six days.

 

 

"Annie Cresta," Caesar says with flair and a flourishing grin, "What do you like best about the Capitol?"

She smiles at him before she replies. Bashful. "It might be strange to say, but I really like the Jacuzzi."

"The Jacuzzi!" He replies with a delighted expression. "That's not strange, my dear, it's perfectly understandable. We at the Capitol like our luxury, isn't that right?"

The audience reply with appreciative murmurs and nods.

Caesar leans forward, intrigued. "What is it that you like about them?"

Her answer is more immediate this time, like she's excited to talk about such a quaint topic. Cute. "The bubbles!"

The audience laugh.

She looks at them, a smile graced on her face. Dainty. "It's true. There's something so relaxing about them! It made me want to fall asleep, so snug and comfortable, and ready to right under.”

"I know exactly what you mean," Flickerman nods, smiling genially, his blue suit sparkling. "Speaking of water, I absolutely  _adored_  your opening ceremony costume."

She beams at that. Enchanting. "It was so pretty. It was like being in the ocean! Or rather, being a _part_ of the ocean. My stylist did an excellent job, but I have to say that I love wearing this dress too."

"You look magnificent in red," Caesar agrees, and the audience applauds, right on cue.

This is an Annie Cresta Finnick has never known.

"Thank you," Annie says, blushing prettily. Desirable. 

"Now tell me," Caesar leans in, dramatically lowering his voice into a whisper, a loud whisper, meant best for shared conspiracies. "How do you intend to win?"

She opens her mouth and pauses, turning to the audience with a flick of her eyes, before she smiles. Mischievous. "I'd hate to ruin the surprise."

" _Annie,_ " Caesar gasps, shocked, scandalized, eager to know more. "I would _never_ ask you to  _that_. All I ask for is a hint of what is to come. One hint couldn't possibly hurt."

She wavers. Teasing. "Just between us?"

"Of course," Caesar nods, his expression on of exaggerated seriousness. He even performs the action of crossing his heart.

"Alright."

And the audience roars, thrilled by the spectacle Annie puts on, how she gives in easily to Caesar's charms.

"I'm _very_ good at adapting to situations, so I'm sure to be turn whatever happens to my advantage," Annie says, determinedly, chin raised high. Fierce.

"As do I, Annie, you have been a pleasure to talk to," Caesar says, beaming brightly. "One more thing —"

It's not too noticeable, but Annie stills. Her smile strains a second too long, her eyes widen. Finnick recognizes  _that_ , at least, her tells whenever Victoria was nearby. Back on the defence. 

Caesar Flickerman is about to ask what he asks all tributes at the end of their three minute interviews.

His gaze lingers on her wrist.

"I see you've found your soulmate."

"My true love? Yes," She smiles, glowing with happiness. Unrecognizable. "He's waiting for me back home."

"How sublime," Caesar says, as the audience coos and  _awws_  at her. "I wish you the best of luck, Annie Cresta from District Four. May you find your way back to him!"

 

 

It's a long time before Finnick can breathe again.

 

 

(Teddy's interview is sweet and charming, and Finnick tells him as much when they watch it again, able to concentrate this time around. He grins as Teddy flushes with pride, admiration radiating from him as if he's turned into the sun. Finnick doesn't know what to tell Annie, who has lied, who he doesn't understand, and can't read, and tells her with a plastic smile  _good job._  

Finnick doesn't know what to think, if he's shocked, relieved or saddened. Some combination of all three, perhaps. Coupled by the fact that he doesn’t know her at all, and that he squandered his opportunities, fucking up because — because —

He doesn't — he doesn't know how he's supposed to react.)

 

 

In the end, he doesn’t ask.

Annie Cresta might be his soulmate, but she’s still a stranger.

 

 

How the Capitol chooses to immortalize Annie Cresta is not the way Finnick will remember her.


	6. Dystopia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dystopia – An imaginary place of total misery. A metaphor for hell.

Coral used to tell Annie that Teddy kicked in his sleep. But here in the Capitol, curled up beside her, Teddy is still.

Annie doubts that he’s actually sleeping, feeling restless and wide awake instead, like her. It’s the night before the Hunger Games. Nerves spark under their skin, the dreaded thought of only one, one survivor, one victor, residing permanently in their mind until the end.

Air rushes through her mouth and nose, and Annie can’t focus, can’t think, can’t sleep. The quiet will eat her alive if she doesn’t think of something else. She _has_ to think of something else.

So Annie lets herself think of Neptune Jones, before their last sunset on the pier, before he wore the first bracelet she ever made for him, before the time they kissed and she was soaking wet as he pulled her to the ocean floor.

Annie thinks about the days he got mad, the days on end that he would be scared and shaken because the reaping had come and passed and he was terrified that it might be him, that it might be someone he knew, that it might be her.

Annie thinks about the way his eyes seemed greener when he was sad, browner when he was happy. It’s a stupid reminder of how much she loves Neptune Jones and his hazel eyes.

Annie thinks,  _this has to be the last time._

Annie thinks,  _I can’t think of Neptune again._

Annie thinks,  _not until I know Teddy will win._

"Hey," Annie whispers, venturing, "Teddy."

"What?" He mumbles, in that way that is almost sleep-heavy, on the brink of falling asleep, tiredness tugging at his eyelids.

"Do you still have a really mean kick?" Annie asks, well aware that it’s an open invitation to getting hurt. She welcomes the bruise, if it’s like this.

"Go to sleep, Annie," Teddy says instead, his voice muffled by the pillow.

Annie smiles, a vapid, empty thing that she’s glad Teddy can’t see. It’s filled to the brim of sadness and carries the weight of ocean water.

"You too," Annie replies softly, and she tries, she really tries. "Get some rest."

 

 

It’s a farce: she tries to sleep and be silent; he tries to sleep and be still.

They’re good at pretending, at fooling each other, trying to make their breathing patterns even, and never quite achieving success.

 

 

Dawn comes too soon, Victoria and Regulus arriving with it.

"See you soon," Annie smiles at Teddy one last time, trying to memorize his face like this: on the brink of despair, on the edge of hope. It’s the last time that fear, at best, is a shadow on his face, before it becomes a permanent fixture crowned with his survival. Annie directs a tight smile in Victoria’s direction. "Won’t be a minute."

 

 

She barely feels the tracker’s sting.

 _Put on your brave face._  She tells herself, summoning her stoicism as Victoria joins her and guides her to the breakfast table. One final feast before she meets death headfirst. Annie eats, and dredges up Ron’s final parting words. 

 _Chin up, no looking back now._  

She thinks about her pact with Lorenzo and Juno, the pair from District Two, and wonders when it’ll fall apart, before or after there’s no one left but them.

"I love this part," Victoria tells her, entranced by the blueness of the sky, the city sailing by, the terrain changing beneath them. She turns away, gazing at her, eyelashes thick with kohl. "Do you think you’ll be by the sea?"

"No," Annie answers, shortly. "I hope not."

She doesn’t want to think about it, how impending it all is, while the last shreds of her still remain. She’s had to suffice with pale imitations of the ocean in her room, and tell herself that it was enough. Teddy was with her, it had to be enough.

No, it was. Annie tells herself, breathing deeply. It  _was_  enough.

"It must be nice to be a bird," Victoria tells her, losing interest in the silence and returning to staring out the window. "You’d see these sights each day."

"Would you be a bird?” Annie asks, more to pass the time than genuine interest. Even if she could choose to be a bird, it sounded like the quickest way to tire of them. If she was a bird, she’d fly away, see what existed outside Panem. If there was anything there. “I thought you’d prefer to be a fish.”

"I can see why you’d think that," Victoria muses, her expression serene. "I love the sea, but a bird has the best of both worlds.”

"Birds can’t swim," Annie says, staring at her slender wrists. A tracker in one, a Timer in the other. What fun District Three must have. What fun, the Capitol must think.

"No. But they can float," Victoria nods, agreeing. Her eyes look less glassy in that moment. Something akin to melancholy, as she watches the sky, strangely frail about her in the morning light, a chalky glow altering her composure, somehow. She smiles, the expression dissonant with her air of confidence. "That’s all I want." 

 

 

In the Launch Room, after her shower, Victoria hands Annie her district token. It’s a pitiful thing, really, so small and easily breakable, in the palm of her hand. Annie loves shells, couldn’t bear to part with the one habit she excelled at.

"I used to be really good at making these into bracelets," Annie says, telling Victoria because someone might as well know. Her fingers close over the shell, pressing it into her skin so there’ll be a temporary indent. The sharp reminder of pain is good, Annie tells herself. It keeps her concentrated, reminds her that there’s no time to break once everything starts to go awry. "Still am."

"I believe you," Victoria nods, encouragingly. "Maybe when you come back —"

"I don’t — I’m not coming back," Annie says, breathlessly, the words sharp in her mouth, twisted, unpleasant. The truth. "I — I can’t —"

Teddy has to be the Victor. Teddy has to win.

"Drink some water," Victoria says, placating. Hands Annie a glass half-filled. "I’m still rooting for you."

"Why?" 

"I love the sea," Victoria beams, and Annie closes her eyes, tries to picture the sea from District Four, when she was eleven and prone to falling asleep on boats, when she was eight and Coral was trying to sing songs, when she was five and Annie was trying to throw stones and watch them bounce towards the horizon until they inevitably sank. "And your eyes, Annie, carry the sea wherever you go."

At that, a flush spreads over her face, embarrassment warm and uncomfortable. Annie never knows how to respond to remarks like this. Mags humoured Victoria, liked her fascination with the sea, querying with an amused smile. Maybe Annie should try the same thing, if it’s the last conversation they’ll ever have.

"Why do you love the sea so much?" Annie asks, taking a deep breath and releases it slowly. She repeats the action, and feels calmer.

Victoria smiles, her teeth a brilliant white ocean gleam, as she begins to speak about the sea, waxing rhapsodic about anything and everything that she’s loved about it. She speaks for a very long time, and Annie doesn’t listen to the words, but to the cadence, she listens to the musical lilt of Victoria’s voice, and pictures the waves going back and forth on the shore, how she dipped her toes in the sea green water, placing a seashell to her ear.

Victoria speaks until the announcement interrupts and tells them that it’s time for the launch.

“Ready?” Victoria asks, kissing Annie’s cheek when she nods. She holds Annie’s hand as they walk to the launch pad, continues to hold Annie’s hand when Annie steps into the metal plate. “Good luck.”

It’s the last thing Annie hears before the glass cylinder separates them.

"I’m ready to die," Annie says out loud, lying, heart racing, trying to organize her expression into stoicism. She’s glad Victoria can’t hear her, and can only see her brave face.

Annie smiles instead, so tightly that her cheeks hurt, and then she goes up, up, up.

 

 

Annie thinks about her mother’s words, her calloused hands.

Annie thinks about Librae’s advice, the practiced glibness.

Annie thinks about Ron’s instructions, how precarious it is on the situation.

 

 

The daylight is blinding and a devastating shade of blue, perfect for a hail of crimson rain to tear away what little innocence remained in any of the tributes. Annie raises her chin, defiant, nonetheless. 

Her mouth turns dry. Sixty seconds to wait. Sixty seconds to scan the area before the bloodbath happens. Sixty seconds to ready yourself for a kill. Find the weapon that suits you best, and lock onto a target that looks like easy prey.

If she could only  _think._

 _Focus_ , Annie tells herself, absorbing the surroundings as best she can through her adrenaline-pumped mind. It’s an open stretch of ground, small patches of grass interwoven with dirt. There are some trees in the distance; doubtless a few of the smarter tributes will decide to start running there instead, while the bloodbath happens. There are cliffs, there are rocks, there must be a steep slope existing somewhere —

The gong goes off.

Knives aren’t her only weapon.

Annie runs, charges and tackles the boy from District Six to the ground. He’s a slow runner, but he doesn’t see her sprinting towards him. He makes a surprised sound, and air rushes out of his lungs. It’s a sound that Annie’s never going to forget, scarred into her memory —

Annie is operating on surprise, but that’ll only give her a few seconds before he remembers how to react. She takes the rock she’d picked up as she’d run towards him and strikes his head. It lacks the finesse of a sword running through the neck, or an arrow arching into the heart, and Annie’s hands are shaking —

She’s never —

He looks twelve.

Someone screams. It’s not her. Another tribute, wasting energy instead of fighting for their life and struggling to resist the bloodlust madness. She hopes —

No time for that.

She rolls over, narrowly avoiding the axe.

The boy from District Six is dead.

"Fuck," Annie curses under her breath, pulling the axe out of the ground. She can’t rub the blood off her hands, but she can damn well risk a few precious seconds of survival to look and try to find the person who threw the axe in her direction. Quick glances, left, right, but no one’s staring at her with a challenge in their eyes.

Who knows, Annie muses later, the axe could have been there to help her or kill her.

Lorenzo is hacking the girl from District Eight to death. Juno is wiping her blade on the grass, watching two tributes fight carelessly, untrained, unpractised by the quick draw of a sword to make death as sleek and painless as possible. 

Maybe she wasn’t graceful about her own technique, but for all that boy from District Six knew, he might have thought that he tripped on his own two feet, felt pressure as he met the ground, and died instantly from the fall. It might not have been graceful, but it was effective.

And Teddy —

Teddy is alive and standing. She wonders if he’s killed. She wonders if he saw her kill.

She feels sick to her stomach, and makes her way to the boy she’s silently sworn to protect.

No one told her about this. How it would feel. How she would have to lie and put on a performance of a lifetime. It’s nothing like skinning a fish.

"Good to see you alive," Annie says, too hollow inside to even think of smiling. Brave faces doesn’t mean a smiling face, after all. A brave face just has to look determined, and fool everyone else in the process.

"Yeah, I’m made of tougher stuff than that," Teddy nods, grim, and Annie accepts this, noticing the blood flecked on his clothes, the cut on his cheek. She sees through his bravado instantly.

"I know you are, Teddy," Annie says, her mouth tasting like blood. He can take care of himself, and she’s proud of him for that. But she’s scared too, and hopes that her fear won’t stop her from protecting him. She’ll make it work. "I never doubted you."

Another cannon goes off.

 

 

Ten people are dead already from the bloodbath alone: both tributes from District Six, Eight, Nine and Twelve, the boy from District Ten, and another boy from District Eleven.

"So what now?" Philomena asks, while the Careers regroup, all of them intact, staring at each other with a guarded expression. It’s impossible to tell what Philomena thinks of them, but Annie would hazard a safe bet that it’s nothing but disdain and impatience. "We have a deal, right?"

“‘Course we do!” Lorenzo grins, a crooked thing that makes his face look off. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Glad you’re on our side.”

"For now," The District One tribute replies coolly. She turns her attention to Annie and Teddy, addressing them formally. Her spine is ramrod straight, and she looks at them directly, like she’s issuing a challenge. "You fought well."

"You too," Annie says, voice neutral, trying to keep the features on her face placid. She doesn’t appreciate the praise, not when they’re strangers, talking to each other for the first time.

Philomena, far more than Augustus, seems to be the one Annie has to watch out for.

Philomena smirks.

"I can’t believe you didn’t get anyone for easy pickings," Juno says, flint eyes narrowed at Lorenzo.

"Hey, I know you like the chase better," Lorenzo replies, shrugging, reaching out to touch her arm, nonchalant. Juno pulls away. He continues, blasé. "Why have one or two here like sitting ducks?"

Juno rolls her eyes in response. But she’s grinning, evidently sharing the dark sense of humour that Lorenzo has.

“Okay, fine then,” Juno says, “Time to make a plan.”

 

 

She slips a knife under her sleeve and in both her boots. You can never have too many knives, Mags told her. This is a game of survival, not trust, and Annie’s damned if she lets herself get killed in her sleep. Augustus and Philomena believe she wields the axe alone, and Annie shrugs when they question her weapon skillset, frowning when she shrugs and says she likes it. Maybe it’s odd, the girl from the fishing district preferring an axe than a net or a trident, but Annie doesn’t care what they think.

"I can respect that," Juno grins, sinking her teeth into an apple, as they guard the supplies. Teddy’s gone out with Augustus and Lorenzo and Philomena to hunt for the tributes. "I always did like the look of the spear. Stone wanted me to use the sword more than anything."

"It’s kind of impractical, don’t you think?" Annie muses, furrowing her brow. She’s never liked the feel of them, never quite able to correct her stance. Knives were easier. Tridents were easier, ridiculously ornate as they were.

"Depends on the fighting style," Juno tilts her head, molten gold locks spilling over her shoulder, as she considers the apple in her hand before taking another bite. "It has its uses and flaws, just like any weapon.”

Juno’s not a fool, Annie thinks, probably suspecting that everyone carries more than one weapon at hand.

 

 

Maybe it’s strange, but Annie likes the exploring aspect of the games, especially when the pair trusts each other. Danger is always a hair’s breadth away, but as long as the knowledge that someone’s got their back exists, she feels more at ease. They tread quietly, like they’re walking in hallowed grounds. It’s not much of a comfort, but at least the silence is companionable. 

The possibility must cross their minds each time it happens: that this is a ploy to separate the group and dispose of them one by one, entertained for a brief moment.

Somehow, this tenuous allegiance is enough. Or it’s too early to disperse, and so, has to suffice.

But with anyone other than Teddy, Annie trusts the silence much more than the conversation.

 

 

She thinks about it, in spite of Ron’s advice to not look back.

Her thoughts return to the boy she killed, and she wonders if she should ask Lorenzo about him. What he would say — if he got a glimpse of his personality, if he was more vivid and real than whatever artificial personality was drawn out by Caesar Flickerman’s interviewing prowess.

"Be yourself," Victoria had told her, sighing blissfully at the red dress she designed, twirling her finger, wanting Annie to turn. "There’s nothing not to like."

Annie had become what she needed to be, something malleable and likeable, adapting to the situation like she promised she would.

It’s the damndest thing; Annie can’t remember the boy’s name.

 

 

The thing about these District One tributes, Annie learns, is that they don’t like people, and make no effort to even try.  

Augustus relies too heavily on his brute strength and quick temper, is too easily susceptible to flattery and the attention Juno pays to him. He’d been like that with Caesar Flickerman too, glowing when compliments were lavished upon him. Augustus might like the attention, but it’s very clear he won’t reciprocate the gesture. 

Philomena, on the other hand, doesn’t spare Augustus much heed, preferring a more aloof persona. She was surprisingly receptive to any question asked by Flickerman, and yet, very little about her was revealed. She’s not especially attractive, but she’s striking. She says almost nothing but clearly thinks a great deal.

"Smoke," Philomena says, always in a lowered tone, clipped and precise, never expending words more than she needs. "This way."

 

 

"Do you think they’re laughing at us?" Lorenzo muses, on the second day, keeping watch in the darkness.

Annie pauses, careful not to say anything stupid. “The stars?”

"Yeah," Lorenzo grins, snorting. It’s unpleasant. It must be exhausting having his kind of personality, all fake cheer and insincerity, never quite able to discard the mistrustful air about him. "Them."

"What else would they be doing?" Annie shrugs, looking up. They certainly wouldn’t cry for them. Nobody can afford to, unless you’re watching the screen and mourning someone else’s story. "Crying over District Eight’s romantic tragedy?"

She tries to recall the interview. How they’d been in love since the moment they laid eyes on each other and couldn’t wait to get the Timers as soon as they met — just to be sure, just to be certain.

"Among other things," Lorenzo smiles, rueful. "You think they were telling the truth?"

"Not really," Annie says, shaking her head slightly.

It’s good that the Timer is only a countdown, there’s no name attached, no face. It means you can lie and everyone has to take your word for it, once you’ve hit jackpot and the only numbers displayed are zeroes. 

People lie in the three minute interview. Lorenzo must have done, though he’d done his best to mitigate it by distractions of jokes and sly remarks, almost insinuating and never quite.

She’d watched the District Eight tributes in the Training Centre and the Lunch Hall from time to time. They’d barely talked to each other. She knows what it’s like; trying not to get yourself attached to a stranger you’ll know for roughly under a month, if you’re lucky. She knows what it’s like, trying to distance yourself from the person you’ve known all your life, and hope that you can emotionally detach from them, even though it’s an impossible thing, impossible for even thinking, let alone  _attempt_ _._  

"I can’t blame them for trying," Annie adds, thinking that if there was a soulmate pair in the Training Centre, she’d bet on District Nine. They both said their soulmates were waiting for them back home, but who knows if they were lying or not.

Neither of them thought they were going to win, so there’s not much point trying to emphasise their star-crossed love.

"I guess," Lorenzo makes a non-committal sound. She can’t remember what was said about his soulmate. He was still looking for her, Annie vaguely recalls; he said find her when he got back. “I liked your answer, by the way.”

“Oh?” Annie mumbles, face growing flush, and she can’t help but think of Neptune then, hand pressed to her heart. Her true love might not be her soulmate, but it is true love nevertheless, and nothing will make Annie doubt her love for Jones.

“Yeah. Thought it was sweet.”

"Gee, thanks. Anyway. What about you? Are you laughing at the stars?" Annie asks, scanning the horizon, the darkness that is impossible to see through. Changes the subject in case she dwells too much on Jones, however much she wants to. But Jones isn’t her soulmate, and the fucking problem is that she’s all but insinuated that he is.

(She wonders what Jones makes of that.)

Lorenzo beams at her, and Annie can’t repress her annoyance. “Oh, Annie, when am I  _not?”_

 

 

By the time Teddy wakes Annie up, Augustus is dead.

Juno and Philomena have never looked more proud of themselves.

"Heartless," Lorenzo sighs, grinning lopsidedly, strained somewhat, even though he’s clearly relieved that another competitor has been removed. One problem out of the way, two more arises. Are they going to disband and decide to go solo? He doesn’t say anything as he leans into Juno, invading her personal space, looking for something. Maybe he’s trying to silently communicate, but if Juno answers him, then it’s lost on Annie. Her onyx eyes narrow, but neither move away, face impassive, chin raised defiantly. Eventually, Lorenzo draws back, sighing. "Did you even give him a chance?"

"Would you rather him be alive, Ren?" Juno snaps, scowling. "He might have had his uses, but I think we’ve spent enough time sitting around and doing nothing. No wonder our sponsors aren’t giving us anything."

"I didn’t say _that_ ," Lorenzo mulls, elongating the last word. "I’m just saying he could have probably stuck around longer, so we could feed him to the mutts. Besides, we don’t need the sponsor’s help _yet_. We can take care of ourselves. We’re Careers, Juno."

He looks awfully young when he says that, Annie thinks, though he tries to hide it with a glib demeanour, the arrogance convincing for a few seconds.

"Then why don’t we act like it?" Juno hisses, pushing his shoulder. "We should hunt, not just explore the terrain."

"Fine," Teddy snaps, and Annie starts, the difference between the Careers and Teddy have never been clearer, he looks too young, younger than any of them by a good few years. Maybe Annie’s the oldest, but Teddy is most certainly the youngest, shortest, most eager to prove himself. “Let’s do that.”

Annie can’t squash down the pang of sadness inside of her, even though she knew it would happen sometime.

You don’t become a victor without dirtying your hands and becoming what you’ve always hated.

 

 

The girl from District Ten lights the sky that night, her freckles almost mistaken for stars. Her name was Rose, Lorenzo tells her, afterwards. Seemed to welcome death, didn’t even try to fight.

 

 

Dawn rolls by. They’ve spent a day searching, no mutts in sight just yet.

“Maybe they’re already gnawing the remains of a tributes’ corpse. Maybe they’ve eaten Augustus,” Lorenzo tells Teddy, and he can’t quite resist snorting.

"What were your victors like?" Teddy asks, deciding to break the silence and try to leave the state of boredom that plagues them all as they scan the vicinity and find not even a clue to start tracking people. He speaks very quietly, and treads softly.

"Which one? There’s Pash and Silks and Priscilla and Marcellus, Cashmere, Gloss," Philomena lists, raising her eyebrow.

There’s plenty more, Annie knows. District One have the most, but maybe the victor system works differently within that District. Maybe the victors help the Careers more before the Games, so that they have a good working relationship before the reaping happens and trust them easier.

Teddy thinks about it. “Tell me about Pash and Silks.”

"I didn’t know Pash that well, but Silks… Silks was a good mentor. Strict, to the point. Very adept at sleight of hands." Philomena says curtly, nodding. 

Annie sets her mouth into a grim line. “I don’t remember a Pash.”

"Pashmina Bly. She won the Fifty-Fourth Hunger Games," Juno clarifies, her knowledge eliciting a sharp intake of surprise from Philomena. She shrugs, almost like she’s sheepish. "Father was always impressed by her Game. Liked the use of the garrotte. The camouflage too."

 ”What about Silks?” Teddy asks, furrowing his brow. “He sounds familiar.”

"Think, Ted. You know this one," Annie says, smiling softly and deciding not to help. Caesar mentioned him to Augustus, come to think of it. Or was it Philomena? Whichever it was, there are certain habits Caesar falls into, for the benefit of the Districts or the Capitol denizens. One of them is to enquire what the victor of the previous winner is like as a mentor. Because the Victory Tour isn’t enough, oh no, certainly not. The Capitol want to know what the new mentor is like as an influence to the current tributes, even if it is likely that a different district will win instead.

"I know he won last year," Teddy says, testily, annoyed by her teasing. She can’t help it, even now, it’s a reflex, muscle memory that she can only mute once in a while. "I know it was a desert. I’m asking what he’s  _like_.”

What any victor was like, Annie imagines. A shell of what they used to be. Describing him as strict, to the point, and being adept at the sleight of hand doesn’t paint much of a personality. 

"Hush," Lorenzo says, through his teeth. "Did you hear that?  _Listen.”_

They stand still, hovering, waiting for whatever Lorenzo heard while they were conversing. Annie looks through the trees, and tries to not blink, in case she misses something important.

There’s only smoke.

Except —

That’s not normal smoke. It’s not the kind of wood burning smoke that some desperate tribute stupidly makes.

It’s not smoke, but Annie doesn’t know _what_ it is. It flickers oddly like it’s a swarm except —

Except it _must_ be a mutt of some kind, translucent wings beating at them and heading straight towards them.

Oh, _shit._

” _Run!”_  Annie shrieks, launching herself into a sprint, desperate to outrun the mutts.

It’s too late to turn back — slow down — take Teddy’s hand. She’s afraid and she can’t look out for Teddy when she’s scared for her own life, her own mortality suddenly upon her.

Not like this.

_She doesn’t want to die like this._

 

 

She can’t hear them running behind her, her ragged breath too loud in her ears, blood pounding in her head. She’s terrified, and she can’t look back, too fearful of what she might see.

 

 

Eventually she stops, knees bent, chin digging into her chest, her hands reaching out for support. 

She’s alone.

 _What have I done?_  Annie thinks, fleetingly, trying to quash down the panic. She’s got to find Teddy. She doesn’t trust him with anyone else, not even for a second. _Shit. Fuck._

_Fuck._

_He can take care of himself_ , Ron says, Coral says, in her head. They’re not wrong. Annie knows she might be overprotective, but Teddy is hardly useless. You don’t become a Career Tribute and remain a millstone, dragging people down, young or not. 

They’ve both killed people, lasted this long by their own merits.

"I know that," Annie mumbles. It doesn’t stop Annie from feeling dread. She _knows_ Teddy’s not weak, not useless. He’s quick-witted; he can do what it takes to ensure his survival. He’s capable, resilient, able to survive.

She trusts in him, believes in him.

But that doesn’t mean that she won’t stop trying to protect him to her last breath.

 

 

Annie finds him as dawn creeps across the horizon.

"You stupid girl," Philomena spits, shoving her backwards into a tree, teeth bared. "Do you have _any idea_  how reckless you were?”

"Did you see the mutts?" Annie asks, cold, staring at her unflinchingly. 

"There was smoke," Teddy says, carefully. "After you took off, we chased after you, got separated but —"

"Luckily, we didn’t stray _too_ far from each other," Philomena inclines her head, contemplating. "I heard some screams, it didn’t sound like either Juno or Lorenzo."

"It wasn’t smoke," Annie insists, voice urgent, mouth dry. She’s barely slept, can’t stop herself from fidgeting. "It — it was mutts. I’m certain of it. I’ve never seen that kind before. They were like… butterflies, or moths, maybe. Winged insects, translucent. I thought it was smoke too, but then I _looked_ at it, and I just knew it wasn’t."

A cannon goes off.

"Well," Teddy says, pausing. He looks years older. There are scratches on his face. "I’m glad you’re okay."

"Likewise," Annie nods, and meets Philomena’s blue-grey eyes. "Happy?"

"For now," Philomena frowns, stepping back and nodding, accepting her explanation. She looks at the direction to where the cannon fired. "Better them than us."

"If it was the mutts that got them, anyway," Teddy sighs, and when he shifts from foot to foot.

"Who knows," Annie shrugs, rolling her shoulders back. She looks to the distance, past the foliage. There are no mutts around right now, at least. "Maybe Lorenzo found someone."

Philomena slants a curious smile in that direction. It’s feline-like.

"Maybe," Philomena agrees softly, then swings her sword, a few slices in the air, trying to flex out her wrists. It’s a gesture Annie remembers Philomena doing often in the training centre. She said little then too, staring back whenever someone stared at her, refusing to yield, or even react. Mostly, she made people feel uncomfortable. "C’mon, let’s go."

 

 

Apropos of nothing, Philomena comes to a standstill. She looks around, nods and makes an approving sound.

"Phil?" Teddy says, eyes wide, and then struggles to breathe, making a choked sound as her sword punctures his windpipe, and he never has the chance to finish her name and —

There are gargles, an awful sound, an awful colour spurting into the air, on Annie’s clothes. Red like blood, red like berries, red like paint and Annie is too conscious of the hacking sound cleaving Teddy’s head from his neck and —

Annie stumbles back and —

"What," Annie says, screams, shrieks, and — and — and — "Why did you do that?"

Then:

"Teddy," Annie says, struggling to breathe, heartbeat a hummingbird, ready to burst and die — " _Shit, Ted.”_

His flaxen head rolls to her feet, eyes captured in surprise and —

"Oh, Annie," Philomena says, her mouth as twisted as Lorenzo’s, whenever he was particularly upset with Augustus and relishing every moment Augustus lost his temper at someone else, because he was too much of a brute to figure out it was someone else. "It was bound to happen eventually."

"But —" 

No, no, no,  _no, no._ Annie sucks in air, more air; she can’t remember how to breathe. This is  _wrong._  This isn’t possible. She can’t accept it. She can’t —  _Teddy —_

_Teddy’s not —_

_He can’t be —_

"That’s right. You wanted him to live. It was very sweet," Philomena says, talkative all of a sudden, goading in a calm, monotone voice. Her voice doesn’t betray her excitement, but her eyes flash and it’s clear she  _loves_  this moment. Still she smiles. “It was _hysterical._ I wanted to laugh at you for so long. You actually _believed_ he could win. You stupid girl.”

Annie has never understood Philomena. But here, just between the two of them, both of them unravelling, revealing their true colours while Teddy’s blood spills and spills, Annie hates what she sees.

Philomena is an unnerving, cruel, vicious creature, taking the utmost satisfaction in Annie’s shock, both of them teetering on the edge of madness, and Philomena is more than happy to push them both over.

"If only you could see the look on your face, Annie,” Philomena taunts, “I think it was worth it for the spontaneity alone. Juno might murder me because it was meant to happen later, but, well, I’ll kill her before she has the chance."

"He was just —" Annie gabbles, feeling giddy, emotions thrown up in the air, there is only shock numbing her system, and the words are breathless in her mouth, she doesn’t know what she’s trying to say, but there’s a knife ready in her hand.

" _Weak_ ," Philomena sneers, and Annie stabs her. 

Using her momentum, Annie uses her other fist to uppercut Philomena’s jaw, and leaves her winded. Annie stabs her again and again and again, this time deeper, this time more fatal, this time more twisted, and the worst thing is that Annie can see her viciously cruel grin, hear the laughter, her taunts, and her blood turns —

There’s blood everywhere. She can feel it warm on her face, and cold inside her skin —

There’s blood on her hands. There’s blood that’s not hers. There’s blood —

There’s blood that belongs to Teddy and blood that belongs to —

"Try again," Philomena’s corpse says, a vulture smile matted thick with death, and just for one moment, Annie achieves perfect clarity, and knows that all she has to do is drive the knife straight through the heart.

The cannon fires and to Annie, the whole world dissolves.

 

 

He was supposed to live.

Come hell or high water, that’s what she said. Teddy was supposed to  _live._

He was meant to be the survivor, the victor, the one who had the last kill.

She’d made plans with Ron. A dozen of them, all of them possible, all of them reasonable, all of them able to be edited and adapted as the tributes got knocked off one by one. Mags had given her advice too. Told her to walk with her head tall and not look back. Ron added, chin up. It was alright to be scared, Librae had said, so long as she moved forward.

Put on your brave face, her mother said.

But how — Annie asks the sky, looking up, feeling the rain on her face. It’s raining but the sky is clear and her face is wet. How can she be brave now?

How can she be brave, when Teddy was supposed to live?

 

 

What —

What is she supposed to do now?

 

 

Annie runs and screams and —

The ground shakes with her.

 

 

After Caesar’s interview, Teddy had asked, “ _Why did you lie?”_

Annie hadn’t answered, not at first, not for a long time, measuring the words in her head and balancing the shape of the syllables in her tongue. She stared at him for a while, trying to find the right words, the honest words, most true and plain words to describe why she did what she did. 

She nearly says:

“Because I’ve never wanted to meet my soulmate. You know that, Teddy. Why should they get obsessed about one particular detail when we’re all going into the Arena and never coming back? Why are they so obsessed with the idea that there’s one person meant for someone and that’s _it_? Why do so many people buy into this idea, when it’s just another thing the Capitol forces upon us?”

She nearly says:

“Because my soulmate is Finnick fucking Odair, Teddy. Finnick, out of all people. I wish I was kidding, but no, this stupid Timer somehow thought that we’re meant to meet. Meant to be. What was I supposed to do? Actually announce it to Flickerman? Do you see why I had to lie now? I — oh, _shit_ ; do you hate me now that you know?”

She nearly says:

“They might as well have been asking about Jones. That’s what they wanted to hear. It’s not my fault they couldn’t tell the fucking difference between soulmates and true love and lose the nuances of my answer.”

Annie Cresta loves Neptune Jones, and it doesn’t seem fair to her to fall for someone else just because a device tells you to. It doesn’t matter that that person is supposedly the truest of loves; Finnick Odair is not what her heart wants. It’s Neptune Jones, forever and always.

She’s tried explaining this to Coral a million times, but somehow it always devolves into an argument and further misunderstandings, and in the end, Annie figures that she’ll never have the right words to explain how she feels about soulmates.

Teddy isn’t Coral, Annie is well aware, relieved that Teddy doesn’t pester her about soulmates, especially now that he knows that she has one. Coral still would, Annie knows, in spite of her disappointment; she could never completely quash her curiosity and still liked to speculate about Annie and her soulmate every now and then, those romantic notions of hers never fully going away, much to Annie’s consternation.

If people really _are_ linked, their souls meeting and bonding in the small moments where nothing matters and the big moments where everything matters, then surely the possibility must exist that people have more than one soulmate, the possibility that soulmates disconnect and drift apart, the possibility that new soulmates are found. If friendships can be temporary, why can’t soulmates be?

Instead, Annie shrugs, pushes her hand through her hair, and murmurs, “They wouldn’t have believed me even if I told them.”

“Annie, _come on_. Now you’ve got to tell me. Who is it?”

“Nope,” Annie shakes her head. “Like I said, he’s not important. Neptune Jones _is_ the love of my life, my true love, and this stupid device on wrist will never persuade me otherwise.”

 

 

Maybe she should have said this:

“Because it’s Finnick. The Great Finnick Odair. Honestly, I’m still kind of coming to terms with it myself. I’m sorry for keeping it from you, Teddy, I am, it’s just… there’s a lot more important things to think about. I mean, the weirdest thing about it is that you didn’t wake up for the momentous occasion. You were there, and you missed it. But that’s not the point, really. The point is, soulmates are the last thing on my mind, when all I want is for you to win, and I will do anything I can to make that possible.”

 

 

When Annie comes to, she stays very, very still.

It hurts to move.

The more consciousness she gains, the more she becomes aware of pain that wracks through her body. It’s more than the ache that seeped through her, the sorrow she carried by leaving her friends and family in District Four, and she tried to hide while preparing for her own death.

It’s not just her heart any more, but cuts and bruises and crimson blood caked over her clothes. Dried blood on skin.

It’s a miracle she’s still alive.

 _A fucking miracle,_  Coral would say,  _I thought you wanted to die a martyr. I thought you wanted to die saving Teddy’s life. Why didn’t you die?_

_It should have been you hacked to —_

_It should have been you who sacrificed yourself protecting —_

Annie had a chance to stop Philomena, obstruct the way, shove Teddy out of reach and —

And she didn’t.

Annie doesn’t know why she isn’t dead.

 

 

She wants —

More than anything, she deserves to die.

 

 

She feels dead already. A dead man walking. Has been all this time, perhaps, preparing herself for the inevitable, ever since her name got called, knowing for a fact that no one would volunteer for her, but only now has come to terms with it. She wasn’t special enough to be saved. She isn’t special enough for the sponsors to want to help her. She isn’t special enough to die of despair.

Here is the brunt of it: her hands are calloused and browned by blood. She accepts it. The blood on her hands. The death that clings to her and will never leave. Death will embrace her every move. Every step she takes.

Get up.

It’s time to move. Take a deep breath and amble through the sea of sharp knives.

Start walking.

 

 

There’s a knife on her. There are many knives on her. Even if she drops and discards one, there is another close at hand. It hurts to move, but she has to get out or else she’ll be crushed. Her leg is sprained, it seems, each movement bringing fresh bursts of pain. Her throat is sore. She doesn’t know how she got here, half buried, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that she gets out. Find something to eat. Stop being light-headed. She has a knife, takes it out from her pocket and begins to cut, gritting her teeth as the pain within her sears and she cannot help but scream.

 

 

How many days has it been? How much has she missed?

 

 

She makes her way to the Cornucopia. With luck, there’ll be a feast. With luck, no one will be there. It doesn’t matter if a tribute is guarding it, she can kill them with her bare hands. Use her knives if it comes to that.

At the Cornucopia, well —

There are weapons. There are axes. There are knives.

There is food.

 

 

There’s a lake. 

When she’s sure she’s alone, she takes off her shoes. Removes her socks and dips her feet in the cold water. She takes the bread and bites, tearing the pretty seaweed bread in half.

Ron would tell her that she should eat slowly. She remembers that advice, and pauses. That she should take her time chewing and not devour the food so quickly.

Ron can fuck off.

She wipes her mouth. Washes her hands, washes the blood away, cups her palms together so she can scoop some water and —

The Timer’s blank.

She blinks, taps the device on her wrist, and still, it remains blank.

"Oh," she says, barely, voice hoarse, and looks up. It doesn’t matter. The grief in her heart outweighs any possibility that almost being soulmates of a stranger might have been. She wonders how long it’s been like that. She wonders if she should tear it off. She wonders if she would feel a thing.

She drinks more water, messily and clumsily, the cold liquid siphoned to her lips like an animal turned desolate.

 

 

_I could drown._

Submerged in water, it’s the closest she’ll ever be to home. It’s not the sea water of District Four, but it’s enough.

_Maybe I should._

 

 

She doesn’t wear much of a brave face these days, truth be told. But she’s tired of being brave, wearing herself out being brave for Teddy and not saving enough bravery for herself. She’s tired of being scared. She’s tired of being dead inside. She’s tired of being tired.

She just wants it to end. She swims.

 

 

If she drowns, gives up like this, then she might as well take everyone with her.

That was the plan, from the very start. Only, in _that_ plan, he’s alive, his hands sullied, hands that have spilt blood, but he’d be able to wash the blood away besides her in the lake. Nightmares seem a small price to pay for life.

Then again, what sort of life is this?

She pays no attention to the cannon fire, taking a deep breath so she can’t hear anything but the water current. She focuses on locating the weak spot of the dam, the knife in hand.

Everything has a weak spot. This is no different.

The earthquake may not have broken the dam, but she will. If nothing else, she’ll be remembered for this.

 

 

She doesn’t fight the current. The current is Teddy. The current is Neptune. The current is Coral and Sophie and Zeke. The current is everyone she knows in District Four. The current tells her that there’s no way out, that bravery cannot survive this. The current takes her, and the current is Ron, telling her not to be stupid, the current is Librae, ordering her to kick those legs, the current is Mags, advising her to swim. The current is herself, desperate to take revenge, the only way she knows how.

 

 

The cannon fires, once, twice.

And then there were two.

 

 

Librae had asked, over dinner, “Have you ever skinned a fish?”

"Sure," Annie had replied, a different person back then, bemused instead outright disagreeing. Unrecognisable to her person she is now. "It’s not that hard."

 

 

The boy from District Seven isn’t a very good swimmer. 

She could watch him drown and let the bubbles escape his mouth before he takes his agonizing last breath. Or she could help him, mercy kill whatever remained.

She’s not sure there’s much left of them anyway.

 

 

She thinks she dreamed this part:

“I’m sorry.”

A room that paints her the watery depths of sea, sunlight peeking through, her hair floats, and she is not alone, but she cannot look at him either.

“I should have told you. I should have saved you.”

He takes her hand then, blood dripping through the spaces in between, and her vision blurs. An ocean of salt at her feet. Whirlpools of misery dragging her down.

“I was too late.”

 

 

_Him or me?_

It’s there on the tip of her tongue, a pearl in her mouth.

_If you could choose, who would you pick?_

 

 

She swims faster than he drowns, and the knife that goes through his heart is swift and sharp.

Like skinning a fish. Quick and easy. It takes less than a second.

She feels nothing at all.

 

 

She lets go, watching the corpse sink, while the blood flows out of his body, and stains her clothes.

Above, Claudius Templesmith shouts jubilantly:

“Ladies and gentlemen! I am pleased to present the victor of the Seventieth Hunger Games, Annie Cresta! I give you — District Four!”


	7. Lalochezia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lalochezia - The use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain.

_"Fuck."_

They say that cursing is meant to relieve pain.

_"Fuck, that hurts."_

They say that cursing lessens pain, somehow.

_"Fucking hell."_

But Finnick’s eyes are watering, there’s blood on his wrists, and everything hurts like _hell_.

It’s a dumb fucking thing to do, but Finnick is in too much pain to regret his life choices now. No, he takes that back. He can do both. He acted irrationally and this is the consequence. He’s in too much pain _and_ he’s regretting his decision. He’s a born multitasker, special that way.

He digs his nails into the meat of his palm. They say that new pain should distract him from older pain. He should know. But currently it’s not doing a good job of working.

"Finnick, you _dumb fucking idiot_ ," Cashmere hisses, pulling him out onto the corridor where the victors watching the games can’t hear them talk, before even more of a scene is caused. Blood slips through his fingers clamped around his wrist. He squeezes. "What did you think you’re  _doing?”_

" _Nothing_ ," Finnick grunts, chest heaving, blinking back the pain. Tries to swallow it down. It takes another moment to register that it’s not just him and Cashmere in the corridor. There’s Librae and Gloss here too. Great. "I just — I —"

"Oh, you’ve _got_ to be kidding me, Odair," Librae says, looking murderous, understanding what he’s been hiding from her, protecting himself, because he’s a coward, a stupid coward—

Gloss passes his hand over his face.

"Stay here," Gloss says, mouth covered, "I’m getting you some morphling. Librae, Cash, make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid."

"Count on it," Cashmere mutters, mouth set to a frown. Librae glares at him

"Don’t start," Finnick says, sensing Librae’s frustration, her honey blonde locks bouncing, "Librae, just, don’t."

"You are so damn stupid,  _what is the matter with you?”_  Librae bristles, scowling, opting to ignore him. Her eyes narrow, as she lowers her voice and seethes. “Annie.  _Annie Cresta._ Are you  _serious?”_

"She’s his…" Cashmere glances at Librae, wanting confirmation.

"Yeah," Finnick spits out, gripping his wrist harder. It feels like he’s admitted to something vile.

"News to me, though," Librae mutters darkly. It won’t be the last that he hears of this, Finnick knows. She’ll let the matter go for now, but later, she’s going to chew him out for not confiding in him. “Fuck. I can’t _believe_ —“

"What would it have changed?" Finnick retorts, bitterly, desperate not to hear how that sentence ends. "I’m still watching her die, aren’t I?"

"She might not," Cashmere says, tacit. She tries to be reasonable, but everything she says sounds illogical. "Lorenzo and Juno are still out there. If she’s strong, those are the only ones she has to worry about. Finn, there’s still a chance for her to win."

"You don’t know Annie. Teddy meant — means _,_ shit, _means_ the world to her," Librae shakes her head, Philomena’s death fresh in her head. "You know what it’s like when people see their friends die before them, let alone allies. It’s a make it or break it moment, and we all saw Annie snap."

"There’s still time, she’s still alive," Cashmere argues, determined not to be dissuaded. Determined that they don’t lose hope in their remaining tribute. "Have more faith in her. Annie is smart, she can adapt. Just because she’s in shock now, doesn’t mean it’s too late for a comeback."

Finnick shrugs. “It’s too late for her.”

"She wanted Teddy to win, Cash," Librae says, sombrely, sighing. She pushes back the hair from her eyes. "That’s the thing. She  _really_  wanted him to win. It wasn’t something she talked about, but if you saw them together, you could tell that Teddy meant a lot to her. You could guess that she would be a martyr if it meant that, well.”

Finnick hadn’t guessed that at all.

He’d recognised the bond between Annie and Teddy, seen how strong it was first hand, but he hadn’t guessed that was Annie’s plan in the slightest.

He’d spent too much time not letting himself get attached, digging his head in the ground whenever Annie was around, avoiding cataloguing details in case he memorized them.

"Ah," Gloss murmurs, morphling at hand, injecting it. Finnick closes his eyes, sees bright lights behind his eyelids, and listens to the sound of Gloss’ voice. "That makes sense, I can see that. And, Philomena, well, she’s intuitive. Was, anyway. She’d have been able to spot that pretty quickly, in that case. Knowing Phil, she’d been waiting for an opportunity like that for a while. Only she didn’t count on Annie to have such a frenzied reaction. Still, you never know. If Teddy couldn’t win, maybe Annie could.”

Maybe, but Finnick doubts it.

“Have faith in your own tributes,” Librae scowls, muttering. “They’re the ones most likely to win, right?”

“Possibly, but I wouldn’t want you to discount your own just yet,” Cashmere smirks. “She’s alive, isn’t she?”

Librae closes her eyes. “For now.”

"I didn’t want to know that she died before everyone else did," Finnick murmurs, the numbing effects of the morphling take hold. Gloss bandages up his wrist, blood seeping through. It’s nothing that a bracelet can’t cover up. Call it fashion, perhaps. "I didn’t — I didn’t know her, I didn’t want to, but still — that doesn’t mean I —"

"I know," Cashmere speaks,  _sotto voce_ , Gloss quietly adding, “No one wants to see their soulmate die.”

Finnick has always been a coward in the worst possible way, and he hates himself for telling them this, but there’s enough morphling in his bloodstream for him to loosen his tongue and say, “I didn’t want to be the first to know.”

 

 

A soulmate has, maybe, a few seconds before anyone else does.

It doesn’t matter if you know them for a second; it doesn’t matter if you know them your entire life.

Those few seconds before the Panem knows, and the cannon fires, making it official, are the longest seconds a person will ever know. Everything slows down and — and just like that, the person who’s supposed to make you the happiest, the person who’s meant to be the most important, and mean everything to you, all those possibilities in the future are gone in suspended silence. 

The person so deeply ingrained in your soul — gone.

Boom, crack. And then the cannon fires, and it’s official.

Your soulmate is dead.

 

 

Here is the truth of the matter that Finnick will never tell anyone:

Finnick Odair had given up on her long before the game had even begun. He had known there was a cannon with her name on it from the start, and any day now, everyone was going to know.

He wouldn’t — he wouldn’t have given up on her otherwise, if —

If he’d thought she had a chance.

 

 

Friend, Finnick thinks to himself that night, desperately, hysterically. His wrist is mended and smooth and wiped clean of blood. 

There will be no scars. There will be no scabs. There will be no remains of the Timer at all.

It will be like he never wanted a soulmate in the first place.

_Friend._

It’s amazing.

His soulmate asked one thing of him, and in the end, he couldn’t even do that.

 

 

The world will never know, because one thing the Great Finnick Odair does is wear bracelets. He famously wears them over his own Timer, and the world will never care, because people still live on the hope that they will be his soulmate. The world will forget about his soulmate, but remember that Finnick Odair, with his trail of lovers, will still fuck as many people who desire him because he is a hedonist and lives on their adoration. The Capitol will keep on dreaming, keep on lusting, keep on hoping that one day Finnick Odair will find his soulmate, and he will love them and only them, even if he’s inconstant as the tide and —

Finnick would laugh, if he could.

 

 

"Bastard," Librae punches his arm when they’re alone and more time has passed for her to process the matter a little bit more. "You told me to describe your soulmate, and you already knew who she was. You  _knew.”_

_And you didn’t tell me._

He smiles blandly. “So? If you’d asked, I’d have done the same.”

She hits him again, harder. 

"You can be really cruel, you know that, Odair?" Librae’s throat tightens, and she stares at him with genuine hatred. "I would have  _never_  asked that of you.”

"I know," Finnick nods, voice rasping, as he accepts this. This, a punishment to both of them. They play cruel games, but somehow, this is worse, now that both of them know the truth of the matter. He’s vile, filthy, algae in a pond. Finnick knows this already. He looks Librae in the eye and says the words that he’s said so many times before. "Tell me anyway."

 

 

"He’s great, your soulmate. Never goes through the games. He’s lucky that way, not like you or me. Let’s see, he’s got blue eyes, the grey kind. The kind that constantly looks like stormy weather, stormy clouds smeared across the sky. He always looks sad, because of that. But they’re pretty, so maybe it balances out. I don’t know. His hair is reddish. The soft strawberry red kind of hair that made all the Careers tease him year after year. But he lacks the freckles, and ever since he was ten, he doesn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse. Most days, he’s certain that it’s a blessing. Of course, he thinks, of course it’s blessing that he isn’t completely a cliché, but he — when he looks at you, he thinks that maybe it was a curse instead. Why? Maybe because he thinks you deserve a cliché. Clichés have the best happy endings, after all. Or, most do. Still, the important thing is that he loves you, Odair; he loves you so fucking much that he’s willing to give you ice cream for free. Isn’t that something?"

 

 

Isn’t that something.

The dam breaks and Annie survives, the slip of a girl with a knife in her hand, who looks too thin and too frail and too drained. She is desperate to get out of the water. Blood sticks to her clothes as she clambers up the ladder rung and into the hovercraft, utterly silent.

It’s something alright.

Finnick could almost call it spite.

 

 

"Is it always like this?" Finnick asks, while they sit and wait, outside.

Mags nods. “Always.”

"Oh," Finnick frowns, not sure what to make of it. It’s strange, being on the other side. It’s strange to think that five years ago it was him they were all waiting for to regain consciousness.

“It’s pretty much the same routine, no matter what game it is,” Muscida informs him. “All we have to do is wait. The only thing that’s different is that as victors of the same district, we get visiting rights before the interview.”

Ron sighs heavily.

Muscida exchanges glances with Mags, then asks in a deliberate tone, “Ron? Something you want to share?”

"Nothing," Ron replies, terse. "I’m happy."

"Please, Stafford," Libra snorts, "People don’t sigh like that when they’re _happy_."

"Shut up,” Ron grunts, rubbing the back of his neck. "It’s nothing, alright? Leave it."

"Ron," Mags says, stern.

"Fine," Ron rolls his eyes, exhaling once more. He crosses his arms over his chest. "It must have crossed your mind, Mags. And yours, Muscida.”

"What?" Finnick asks, not sure what they’re getting at, his gaze flicking between all three. Librae looks as confused as he does.

Muscida nods, wearily agreeing. “A couple of times, yes.”

"What are you guys talking about?" Librae asks, leaning forward, not appreciating that they’re talking around something that clearly seems to be very grave.

“Not here,” Ron dismisses, frowning.

Librae glares at him, silent.

“In short? It doesn’t happen often, something like this. Maybe every once a decade or so,” Mags says, deliberating, every word careful, as she gazes at both of them, willing them to comprehend the gravity of the situation. “The Capitol doesn’t take kindly to victors who win by… unprecedented methods.”

“Unprecedented methods?” Finnick repeats, confused. “What?”

“She won, didn’t she?” Librae states, incredulous. “Knife through the fucking heart. What’s so unprecedented about _that?”_

Ron snorts, bitter. Sullen that he has to talk about it in the waiting room. “That’s not the issue, Librae.”

“Annie broke the dam,” Mags says softly, her voice hushed, “That’s the unprecedented part.”

“Be smart, but not too smart,” Muscida mulls. “Nobody expected _that._ There are some in the Capitol to go so far as to call it an unfair advantage.”

“What about my trident?” Finnick points out, remembering how ornate and decadent and efficient it was. And then it clicks. “A gift.”

“Approved by the sponsors,” Librae mumbles, the same realization dawning. “Fuck. And Flickerman? Will he —”

“Knowing Flickerman, he’ll probably avoid that part of the games,” Mags states, sounding reasonable, and privately, Finnick can’t help but agree, relaxing a little. “He liked Annie, there’s no reason to see why he wouldn’t be gracious and supportive and flaunt her in the best light.”

Muscida sighs. “Doesn’t mean a price won’t be paid when we get back to District Four.”

Ron stands up, finally had enough. Disgust plain on his face.

“I need a drink. Tell me if she wakes up.”

 

 

Victoria sketches, the pencil shaping potential designs while Annie sleeps, already a healthier pallor than yesterday.

"Finnick," Victoria says with a smile, as she hears his footfall, mouth accentuated by a shade of violet.

"Hey," Finnick greets, barely sparing a glance at Annie, and casts his attention on the designs, each of them pretty in their own way. There are colours labelled there. Blue, yellow, pink, green. "How is she?"

Victoria shrugs, small shoulders rising and falling. “She comes and goes. Sometimes she listens to me talk.”

He makes a non-committal sound, clears his throat and wonders if there’s anything left to say.

"Have you decided on anything?" Finnick asks, polite.

"I believe I have," Victoria says, pleased by his inquiry. 

“Good,” Finnick says, throat tight, as he feels more and more awkward standing there. He’s not curious enough to press the issue further. He’s sure it’ll be fine, whatever it is. “I’m sure Mags will be relieved to know that.”

He doesn’t stay long enough to see Annie wake.

 

 

"I failed," Annie says, looking straight through Ron. Her eyes are red, her throat is sore; her skin is unblemished, free from scars and lacerations that formerly recorded her history. But the Capitol likes to take away people’s history that’s written in their skin, considering scars ugly, and robs them of it for the aesthetic of the pleasing eye. "Ron, I —"

"You didn’t," Ron says, shaking his head, sympathy colouring his voice, sadness ingrained deep into the features of his face. "I promise you, Annie, you didn’t."

"I failed," Annie says, ignoring him.

"You’re alive, Annie. That’s not failure," Muscida says, sounding positive. Maybe it’s a ruse, sometimes positivity is infectious.

Librae looks at Finnick, saying nothing.

 “You did well,” Mags says, her hand on Annie’s, “We’re proud of you.”

"I failed," Annie says, bowing her head, refusing to look at them any longer, like they’re part of the problem, they’re part of the Capitol and no one can escape its grasp and she doesn’t want to be here any longer —

It’s the only thing she says.

 

 

None of them have it within themselves to say congratulations. 

Congratulations. You’ve lost more than you’ve won.

 

 

When Victoria enters, her prep team close at hand, she takes Annie’s hand.

"Come on," she says, kissing Annie’s cheek. "Time to get ready."

Annie says nothing, but follows, listless, a puppet with strings, painful to look at as the prep team chatter around her, bright and bubbly, overwhelmingly oblivious to her monosyllabic answers and state of apathy.

 

 

"Ron, you were her mentor most, you’ll be up on the stage with her," Mags decides, and Ron nods.

"Fine with me," Ron says.

Librae rakes her hand through her hair, curls slipping through her fingers as she exhales slowly. “I feel like I’m going insane. We’ve been here too long. I just want to go home.”

"One more day," Muscida promises, calm. "You only need to have a little more patience."

 

 

It’s a pretty charade, rotten to the core, but Caesar Flickerman wears a smile that promises salvation from all the misery the games brings. With bright lights and the exuberant green suit he wears, it only fools the Capitol civilians.

Victoria and her prep team walk on the stage as if they’re stepping in a dream, time and time again, gliding across the stage with candescent smiles, fluttering their lashes as they sweep their gaze across the audience. Theo, too, struts as if he’s built to fit perfectly on the stage, another part of the chessboard. He bows, drinking in the applause, but barely smiles in response, eyes too sharp and cold to be anything else but distant.

Next is Ron, who carries all the grace that a fish caught on a hook has. Bright lights and applause and a centrefold stage cannot erase his disdain, the boredom on his face. But no one looks at him, and Ron plays his part, sitting where he is told to sit, content to do nothing for the next three hours but look like he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

Then Annie emerges, lifted on the plate and —

Victoria dressed her in blue.

A soft water blue that is only found on a perfect sunny day on shallow shores, the soft water blue that makes her look like she’s washed her hands clean of blood. It’s a direct contrast to the red dress that made her look striking and pretty and a work of art to be admired. Here, the softer angles are emphasized, like Annie is in still waters, the epitome of serene and tranquil.

She walks like she’s in a daze, stunned at the beauty, and Caesar laughs, directs her sofa, mistaking her docility for shyness. Caesar makes a few more jokes before it begins, and Annie stares at him, unblinking.

The three hours start. The first half-hour isn’t unusual, by any standards. Annie stares at the pre-arena moments in stunned silence, stoic, hardly flinching, shoulders set.

She can’t stand to watch what happens in the arena, not even the parts which she wasn’t privy to. The girl from District Seven killing the girl from District Three with a spear. The girl from District Five and the girl from District Seven, fighting with their fists to the death, and getting caught in the water. Augustus slaughtering so many tributes at the bloodbath.

That was part of the problem, in Finnick’s opinion; one of the possible reasons for her game was dull, in parts. They killed too much, then became too lazy, and by some chance of luckiness, the Careers were able to avoid the mutts. The non-Career Districts were not as lucky, the boy from District Five dying by butterflies. Teddy kills the girl from District Ten. It’s not his first kill. His first was the boy from District Eight. They see Lorenzo die, slain by Juno’s hand.

By the time Philomena dies, her death shown in full glory, Annie isn’t watching anymore, burying her head in her hands. They can’t stop her from being here, but she can prevent herself from reliving the horror.

She can try, at least.

There’s a story here: a story framed to paint Annie Cresta in the best light, and at the heart of it is the accentuated tragic friendship of Teddy and Annie, how her death drives her off to the deep end, to mourning and sorrow, to the well-earned victory of being a good swimmer, kicking her legs and swimming faster than anyone else. She’s a water goddess, claiming vengeance, and she lets go, while the blood seeps into her, blood that isn’t washed away by the current, swirling all around her, while she treads water and remains afloat, hollowed cheeks. She looks tired, dehydrated, starved. And yet, despite that, she survives.

The Capitol see in that final image of Annie, close up with nothing to hide, a girl who is strong willed and victorious, who claimed her revenge and passion to survive and used the water to her advantage — it was inevitable, in the face of an earthquake, that the earthquake would eventually break the dam, and that the mermaid from District Four should win. Annie Cresta scoops water in her hands and drinks, and in doing so, regains the determination that she’d formerly lost.

The victors see in the final image of Annie, victorious: the complete loss and annihilation of hope. The face of someone who wanted to die.

When it’s over, and the anthem comes on yet again, Snow enters the stage. He is accompanied by a little girl, who carries a crown that rests prettily on a velvet cushion. Annie’s head is bowed, in Snow’s presence, and weight of the crown on her head does little to alleviate this. In fact, her shoulders lower even further, too much of a burden for her to carry.

Luckily, Caesar Flickerman is there besides her, his candid grin there to erase her misery. She waves as if she’s not quite there, following Flickerman’s steps without any enthusiasm.

 

 

The Victory Banquet fares little better. Librae tells Finnick later that Mags kept her eye on Annie, and that their newest victor couldn’t smile with any of the Capitol officials who wanted their photos taken with her.

That smiling, likeable girl who Caesar interviewed before the games is gone, and what remains is a girl too shocked and shaken and wishes to be left alone. Only she can’t. The words she wants to speak are stolen in bright camera flashes, and Annie Cresta looks uncomfortable in every single shot.

Finnick, as always, has his admirers to consider, flocking attention to himself like sunlight to the glittering sea, impossible to be ignored. He smiles and laughs and converses, like he gives a damn about them.

 

 

In the second interview, Victoria selects pastel colours that alter with every movement Annie makes, changing from green to blue to white. It’s a beautifully fluid effect.

"Annie, so much has happened in two weeks," Caesar says, magnanimously. "You’ve surprised us all."

"I won," Annie says, blankly. The words are meaningless to her. She is very still.

"You did, just as you promised. You _adapted_ to the situation — just as you said you would," Caesar smiles, almost reverently, and Annie is completely at a loss at what to say. She remains silent. "My dear, I’m afraid to say my heart stopped for you when Teddy died. Surely I wasn’t the only one worried for you."

He looks to audience, and accordingly, they nod, they make the sympathetic sounds.

"I failed him," Annie murmurs, lowering her eyes, as if she’d only heard the first part. "I wanted — I wanted —"

"To protect him," Caesar supplies, nodding in understanding. "Of course you would. _Anyone_ would. He was very sweet. I could see how close you two were."

"I’ve known him all my life," Annie says, green eyes glimmering.

"What happened after?" Caesar asks, not unkindly.

Annie is silent.

"The earthquake happened. The dam broke. I survived," Annie answers, sounding far away.

It’s a far cry from the tribute who liked to indulge and play along with Caesar’s banter, now Annie is difficult, and gaining information from her is like getting blood from a stone.

"I don’t remember," Annie says, after a minute, regaining some sort of lucidity, a flicker of the girl who wore red and knew how to play along. She almost sounds embarrassed. "It was a blur — one minute I was there, running with the earthquake, trying to — run, I guess, and then the next, I was… I was underneath some trees."

She opens her mouth, tries to say something, then fails. She tries again.

"I don’t know what happened. I’ve tried, but I can’t remember how I got there."

It’s not a satisfactory answer by any means. Even Flickerman can’t save her.

"Well, the games are over, and you have the Victory Tour to look forward to. What do you think you’ll be doing in the meantime?" Caesar clears his throat, changing topic, seemingly only temporarily alarmed by her reaction.

"Resting," Annie says, quietly, and there’s an unspoken relief among the victors that she didn’t say  _healing._  ”I’d like to be by the sea.”

"Resting by the sea. Sounds marvellous to me. How I envy you,” Caesar smiles, softly, salvaging what little he can. In a gentler voice, he asks. "And what of your soulmate?"

"Gone," Annie answers, dully, revealing her wrist to him, the dashes on display.

"I’m so sorry," Caesar sighs, the pantomime of sorrow, and yet so inexplicably and utterly sincere.

"It’s alright," Annie murmurs, shrugging, distant once more, "He wasn’t my true love."

Finnick tenses.

Librae elbows him, muttering out of the corner of her mouth. “Don’t.”

He can’t help it; he shoots Librae a warning glance, tearing his eyes away from Annie. Annoyed. He _knows_.

He wasn’t sure, before. Annie’s interview before the games. Whether there really was someone else or — another lie, another way to deny a tenuous connection between them, unfortunate though it was.

"Annie?" Caesar asks, perturbed, almost reaching out to offer comfort but not knowing how.

"He’s waiting for me," Annie says, and the tears fall freely down her cheeks, and Caesar, with bafflement on his face, automatically hands her a handkerchief. "He’s waiting for me back home."

"Of course he is," Caesar says, utter incomprehension plainly over his face, as he glances to the audience with a helplessness not often found in his interviews.

Victors don’t — victors aren’t supposed to weep, victors are supposed to smile. Even if it kills them.

That is the burden they inherit when they strike the final blow.

Flickerman tries not to upset her further, and says, awkwardly, what he had said before they parted, that first time when she wore a stunning red dress.

"May you find your way back to him."

Annie swallows, drying her tears and stares at her hands. 

"Yes," Annie says, her voice faint, like she’s vanishing before them and turning into saltwater, "I hope I do too."

 

 

"Poor girl," Finnick hears, afterwards. "She doesn’t know what she’s saying."

"She’s gone mad."

"I hear that it happens, you know. Not often, but still."

"A mad victor from a Career District? It simply isn’t  _done._ ”

 

 

They don’t understand, and Finnick doesn’t care to explain and Annie doesn’t bother to clarify.

For the Capitol, her soulmate is her true love, her soulmate is someone who could have never taken off their own Timer, her soulmate is a tragedy that died of heartbreak, the same way Annie died, as Teddy died. The idea that her soulmate is a filthy coward who ripped the Timer off his wrist in order to escape the death knell is unfathomable. The Timer is a permanent part of you — sewn into the skin, marking the count down when the truest of loves is found. A soulmate is always a romantic bond.

For Annie, her soulmate is nothing, a stranger, someone who promised to be her friend and hugged her when she cried and then acted like he had nothing to do with her in the following days, refusing to get himself attached. Big fucking wonder that she didn’t announce to the Capitol that Finnick Odair is — was — is  her soulmate. How would they have questioned her next? How would they have speculated the blank Timer then, knowing that the golden boy gave up on her? Or would they have turned a blind eye and assumed that the Timer had malfunctioned in the Arena, never once thinking that he could be so heartless?

For Annie, her true love is someone who waits for her back home, someone Finnick thought might not exist because Annie had never mentioned him before the interview, and is another reminder that Finnick knows _nothing_ _about her_. She could have been lying, still, he supposes, but why cling to the subtle nuances that are inconceivable to the Capitol, and everything is a struggle just trying to keep it together? Maybe it just slipped, that kind of carelessness able to happen when you win the Hunger Games and can’t think about anything besides trying to make it to the end of the day.

Finnick tightens the knot of his bracelet, and doesn’t mind the pain.

 

 

It’s obvious that they know, betraying themselves when they look at him, at her, on the train. Mags stays at Annie’s side, sparing him a sympathetic glance. Muscida wants to say something about it, but is quelled by a stony glare from Ron and the basket of sweets made by Aemelia.

"Shut up and eat," Ron says grouchily, before anyone says anything, providing a distraction.

Librae takes the sweets and grabs Finnick’s arm and leads him into the opposite direction. Far away from Ron and Muscida, far away from Mags and Annie.

 

 

"Look at that, Odair," Librae says, untying his bracelet, her thumb brushing the place where his Timer used to be. "We match."

She shows off her own wrist, smooth and unmarred, her Timer’s ugly scar erased from skin.

Finnick asks, “When did they —”

"Pretty much as soon as I started talking to the sponsors. They noticed. They didn’t like it. You know how they are, they like us best untarnished," Librae spits, like she hadn’t spent the last few months idly scratching at her scarred wrist.

Her smile is a forced, vicious one, baring teeth because how else is she to cope with something she cannot stand? Still, she’d worn the scar like a badge of honour. If she wanted, she could have covered the scars up with bracelets, like him.

"Your soulmate —"

"Saw me on the day of the reaping," Librae says, curtly, eyes narrowed, cutting him off. "Shut up. She knows I’m not dead."

"Okay."

They’re in the same boat now, both unhappy with their soulmates, both torn away their Timers, both avoiding them because they can’t stand to be near them, let alone know them —

"You think it would have been better if we were soulmates?" Finnick asks, not really sure if that’s something that should be said, especially in light of both their situations. But sometimes —

It happens, sometimes, friends wishing that they were soulmates instead, not to be in love, just to have something absolute to make their bond important and intrinsic and universally recognized as important.

It happens, sometimes, when hearts are broken and people are disappointed that their soulmate wasn’t what they were expecting, and the image they held in their head gets destroyed because everything they had hoped for, everything that they had imagined, was wrong, and the reality was disillusioning. 

"Nope," Librae nudges him, "I’d have probably done the same thing you did. Avoided you like crazy, didn’t want to think about you being — I don’t know, dead, alive, someone important. Not with the games at stake."

"You’d have ripped out your Timer off?" Finnick lifts an eyebrow, recalling when she’s clawed her Timer off, angry who her soulmate was.  _It wasn’t supposed to be like this._

"Right in front of you," Librae crosses her arms, shrugging. She doesn’t look remorseful, glancing at him sideways as she falls into the comfortable seats of the carriage. "I don’t know. Maybe. I did it without thinking. I was just … so let down. She wasn’t what I was expecting. Wasn’t what I wanted.”

She sighs, dwelling on her soulmate for a moment longer, before breathing in and regarding him.

“Look, Odair, you were a cocky little shit at fourteen. I… admit, I wasn’t much better. But, in any case: no. No fucking way. Twenty year old me would _not_ have wanted to be your soulmate.”

"And now?" Finnick asks, tilting his head. 

"What?" Librae blinks, looking at him blankly.

Finnick clarifies, and leans forward. “If we learnt, later, by some miracle, that we were soulmates, like, now, today of all days, would you want me to be your soulmate?”

"What? Just because we’re victors? Just because we know each other better than we do when it was your games?" Librae rolls her jaw, incredulous. Instantly derisive at the idea.

He’s not offended, honestly, just amused by her reaction: the quick rejection and complete absurdity of it.

"No, Finn. _Fuck_ _no_ ,” Librae states, in no uncertain terms, “I still _do not want_ to be your soulmate. Not now, not then, not _ever_. Would you really want to be mine?"

"No," Finnick shakes his head, truthful. He should probably take offence, but Librae doesn’t seem to care either way. "I don’t know what I was thinking, I just —"

"Yeah, I know. Not like we haven’t thought shit like this before, wanting it to be someone else," Librae mutters, interrupting him, and sparing him the apology. "So we’re fucking disappointed with our soulmates. Tore the Timer’s from our skin. Got our wrists healed. Life goes on."

"So it does," Finnick leans back, wrinkling his nose, letting her be. It sounds like they’re going to get drunk on the train again. Maybe they should get Ron over, ask him to pass the beer bottles.

They start drinking without inviting Ron.

 

 

Librae grins, a Mags kind of smile, feral teeth and the promise of violence, visible only after she’s beginning to get tipsy. “So, tell me about _him_ , Finn. My soulmate.”

Finnick stills. “Librae.”

"You said," Librae says, hardening her expression, enunciating clearly, and Finnick does, "So tell me about him."

He clears his throat. “I need a fucking minute.”

It’s been a while since he’s done this, and he wonders how much will change now that he knows who Librae’s soulmate is. He wonders if Librae felt like this, that she was sharpening the blade against his skin and running him through with these lies, kind lies, cruel lies, while his actual soulmate was being hunted and trying not to die, while his soulmate is on the opposite side of the train, oblivious to their displeasure.

It’s a different kind of cruelty that comes with this knowledge, this selfishness, but it’s one he can come to terms with. 

"Okay," Finnick says, sliding her arm across Librae, "Okay, he’s like this…"

 

 

Librae’s soulmate is someone called Lance. He’s older than she imagined, not too old, obviously, a few years at most. But there’s something old about him even so. Even if he was untouched by the games, he knew plenty of tributes personally, and his grief for their deaths defined him. Gave him an old soul sort of vibe. He’s got a shaggy black hair, impossible to tame. A strong jaw. He towers over people, and he makes Librae look incredibly small. He’s got sturdy hands, good shoulders on him that are wide and dependable. He rarely laughs though he understands the joke. He had a little sister once, who drowned soon after her best friend that got reaped. He had a best friend once, but that friendship ended too, after his best friend’s soulmate turned out to be the person Lance was crushing on. He’s got the sea green eyes that Librae hates. But he likes her, and she likes him, and he’ll talk plenty at night, but then, he’s not much of a sleeper. A lot of people wouldn’t pay him any mind, but Librae did, way before he gives in and decides to get the Timer. He removes it pretty soon after, in Librae’s presence, stating that he prefers scarred wrists, prefers an actual clock to a countdown and he just — he just wanted to be sure it was someone he had a history with, rather than a complete stranger.

 

 

"Nice, Finn," Librae smiles, after he’s finished, and hands him another bottle. "My turn."

They spend the rest of the train journey like that, getting drunk and telling each other what their soulmate is like, making them as different as can be, sometimes cruel, sometimes ridiculous, sometimes more than they deserve.

It’s a shame, really, that reality could never measure to their expectations.


	8. Petrichor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Petrichor - The smell of dry rain on the ground.

It feels like she’s walked straight out of a dream. District Four is bright lights and rapid flashes, and the only thing she can do is blink.

Vaguely, she’s aware of Mags and Ron and Muscida hovering around her, so close and yet so far away, a distant register in the peripheral.

Always to be out of reach.

 _Brave face_ , she thinks, absently, taking a step forward. Then another. Another.

District Four seems the same on the surface, sea salt breezes and seagull songs.

District Four welcomes her with bright lights, and she doesn’t know what to do. She stares at them, searching for something, someone, but the faces aren’t registering, and she can’t focus on anything, it’s too hard, and she just — she just wants to be left alone. She wants to go back to staring through windows and being left alone.

She feels her mother’s hands on her face before she sees her. It’s strange, she’ll think later, why she felt her mother’s hands, palms turned calloused from slicing fish, from slicing flesh, cutting, cutting, cutting, instead of —

“Annie,” Her mother is saying, saying her name, again and again, but Annie doesn’t belong here. She’s the wrong daughter, and she’s seeing Sophie Cresta for the first time. A brave face isn’t brave; it’s just terrified, and scared and worried, noticing the greying streaks and worry lines that weren’t her mother’s features before. A brave face is a face that learns how to be tough, and yet, all she can see is vulnerability. “Annie, my brave, brave girl.”

She’s staring, she knows, until suddenly she can’t stare any longer, and has to look away, uncomfortable under Sophie Cresta’s gaze, her hands that don’t quite feel there. She can sense them; feel the warmth that seeps through the splayed fingers on her neck, the juncture of her throat.

It’s just.

She can’t bring herself to believe in it, somehow.

She can’t bring herself to believe in Zeke Cresta either, as he embraces her tightly, tighter, like he can’t believe his little girl is here. She wants to his embrace to hurt and chain her like an anchor to a boat and make her believe that she’s here, entrenched in reality. She wants the Games to be some far off dream, and she’s waking up for the first time, sky blooming into a strange blue that reminds her of an omen.

She breathes in the scent of salt and sea, tries to breathe in and swallow the air as much she can.

“I want,” she says, and her voice is very soft, very faraway, mouth pressed to her father’s shoulder, and she clings to the tinder box memory inside her that recalls this scent, uses it as a link, to cling, to remain that five year old girl that sprained her ankle, and Zeke Cresta tapped her nose and lifted her up in his arms and they spent that afternoon curled up on the ocean shore. “I want to go home.”

“Of course.”

He touches her face, cups his hand across her jaw, like her mother had, and some part of her is aware that her father is murmuring thanks, his gratitude, to the victors, to the spoils, but his words are tuned out, buzzing flies and ocean waves, and she stopped listening some time ago, trying to pay attention to the familiar warmth of his body. The gentle kiss he places on her forehead.

 

 

Home. Annie can hardly believe it.

 

 

Of course, home isn’t really _home_.

Home is a house painted in stripes, in reds and blues and cracks against the walls. Home is a wooden table with a collection of shells at the legs, forks digging deep. Home is six pictures out of seven tilted askew, that nobody quite bothers to fix until it’s for a special occasion. Home is — was — the one last place she could call safe harbour.

Home is now a stranger’s palace, remarkably beautiful and made of out marble. There’s a sea green shine to everywhere she looks, and the place is perfect and pristine. Ready to be inhabited.

It’s so terrifyingly vacant.

“Stay with me,” she says, trying not to cry, not while she can hear people outside, waiting for her every move, in the chance that she might open the door and wave. She refuses to make her voice louder than a mumble, furrowing herself in Zeke Cresta’s arms once again. “Please, just for tonight. I don’t. I don’t want to be alone.”

 

 

“Annie,” Zeke Cresta says, his hand on her shoulder, saying her name with so much love it she will be broken by it. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“It’s okay now,” Sophie Cresta says, touching her hand, speaking softly, like ripples on water, fingertips barely brushing the surface, and it’s enough, somehow. It’s enough, and she is grateful. “You don’t have to be brave anymore. You can let go.”

Maybe that’s the permission, the validation that she needs. That she’s been looking for all this time. To know that the worst is over.

She doesn’t muffle her tears that night.

Nobody gets much sleep.

 

 

She doesn’t remember where she is in the morning. She practically launches herself off the bed and halfway down the stairs, ready to go back home when she realizes that this _is_ her home now. She stops.

It’s too big.

This place is too big and open and spacious and it’s  _wrong_. It’s silent and she doesn’t understand how someone can stand it. How does a victor stand it?

It’s too quiet.

She covers her ears and tries to stifle the silence, the overkill that her thoughts are doing, bubbling inside her and threatening to burst like blood banks, like Teddy and red sunsets, red death, red blood —

“Annie,” Zeke says, and it shouldn’t be like benediction. A name is a name is a name and she’s forgotten that it’s hers. She doesn’t know why. But some part of her can’t recognize it as her own anymore, like she’s had to cut the name out with a knife she’s long since thrown away because it isn’t who she is any more. She’s changed and she can’t go back, and she can’t  _breathe_. “Annie.”

When her hair was longer, she used to bury her fingers in her hair, get them tangled in knots and shake them out. But her hair is short now, and the effect isn’t the same, and she’s so angry that she _let_ them do what they wanted with her because she thought she was going to be forgotten. She can’t comb through her hair with her fingers the same way.

Nothing is same anymore.

The blood that boils beneath the skin of her cheeks doesn’t feel real.

 _I should have died._  She thinks, not for the first time, but for the first time it feels like she’s said them aloud.  _This isn’t right._   _I — I wanted to die. I want —_

She’s staring at his shoulder, trying not to blink. But her eyes are stinging and the tears that spill as reality hits that she is, she  _is_ , and it is so _wrong_ that she is  _here._

 _I wanted to lose._ And it’s horrifying to realize while the Capitol told her story, tying threads of what happened into something more palatable, that was what she trying to do. She  _wanted_ the dam to break, and she couldn’t find it within herself to go the easy way.

The truth was: after — afterwards, she didn’t want to come  _back._

She wonders if her father knows that, thinks about it each time he embraces her, tighter each time, scared that he nearly lost her, scared that he has lost her.

His embrace should be like anchor, tethering her to reality, to the vague, shadowlike memories before the reaping; instead, it’s only pulling her down, down, down.

 

 

She eats. She knows she eats, remembers that she used her teeth, chewed and swallowed, but she can’t remember what she ate. It’s such a small thing to think about. But food has turned flavourless to her, and she eats her fill in measured bites, only stopping when the plate is empty.

 

 

She doesn’t like to close her eyes, not even for a second. The images are too fresh, too raw, scab she doesn’t mean to pick, but the blood is under her fingernails, and she’s staring, she’s screaming, and —

No wonder she is known as the _mad_ victor.

She heard the whispers in the Capitol, the murmurs that continue to grow in the streets of District Four. They think her mad because she doesn’t believe that her soulmate is her true love, they think her mad because she refused to play along, they think her mad because she cannot smile.

The first week, she locks herself in her room. She leaves her room when she is called, sits, eats, frowns, and leaves. She doesn’t want to leave the house, she doesn’t want to leave her room, she doesn’t want to leave her bed.

She doesn’t know how she was able to have dreamless sleep, back in the Capitol, and wonders, if she went back, right this instant, would the dreams go away?

Would her last moments of sanity return, or would they be stripped away from her, fickle like golden wreaths and the glint of swords thrust —

If the dreams went away, would going to the Capitol be a small price to pay?

 

 

The first week, she is left alone, struggling to find comfort in the darkness of her room, the soft light that seeps through the curtains, the song of seagulls. 

The second week, not so much. Her mother wants her to go to the market, buy some eggs from Thetis.

“I promised her you’d show your face, Annie,” Sophie says, then adds in a quieter voice, “I figure getting out of the house might do you some good.”

“Only if we can go home, afterwards,” she says, reluctant to agree. She doesn’t want to go outside for too long, and feel the spotlight of the sun. She can handle the company of her parents, taking care of her day by day. But too many people and the thought of it makes her chest constrict. She’s afraid of them, how she’ll be treated differently, looked at differently, impossible to be ignored because everyone knows her face. She gives in, eventually, but makes no promises to take part in conversations.

“Deal,” Sophie says, smiling like she’s won some small victory.

Like there’s something to be won.

 

 

They don’t reach Thetis’ stall.

It’s too much. Being here. Acting as if nothing happened. Acting as if the Games never happened, and —

It’s too crowded and she can’t breathe and too many people are there, staring at her like she doesn’t belong. They all look and they scream. The birds above them, they scream too.

 

 

She _can’t_ , she tells Sophie, folding into herself, hardly aware of the words that tumble out of her mouth. Some garbled text, some incoherent script. She can’t _do_ _this_ —

It’s a long time before she calms down.

(Later, she won’t remember walking home, but she’ll remember the sensation of clinging onto her mother, praying and praying that she can curl up and hide and _go away._ )

 

 

Some days, her mother asks her if she’d like to see Thetis, Amalia, or Ezri, or someone else on the market stand that she used to know and she hasn’t talked to in a while.

Some days, Neptune knocks on the door and asks her parents, sweetly, nervously, about her, if it’s okay to see her. Newt at his side. They speak in murmurs, hushed whispers, as he is turned away. Her father is bemused but doesn’t push, and she can’t explain the dread in her heart that now exists permanently insider her.

Some days, her mother doesn’t mention anything at all, but it’s there all the same, residing in every hollow space. The same deal being made. The same promise of going home. The same hope that Annie will make it.

Some days, she can almost reach the stalls, other days she can barely get her foot out of the door.

 

 

They meet Mags on the way to the market one day, hand in hand with her grandchild, a boy too young to be reaped. He’s safe for now, while the sea breeze is in the air.

“Annie,” Mags says, her face softened in the morning light. “It’s good to see you.”

She should say something in response, but nothing comes to mind, so she nods instead. She looks just over Mags’ shoulder, unable to meet her gaze, mumbling her recitations, her goal for the day. “My mother wants me to see Thetis. Buy some eggs.”

“Hers are very good,” Mags agrees, gently. “Would you like to meet my grandchild?”

“Grandma,” The little boy says, cheeks round, apple red, he tugs at her hand, stamps his feet. “You promised  _pancakes_.”

“I know, darling. I still do,” Mag says, smiling, placating her grandchild for the moment, “Annie?”

“Yes?” She blinks, not sure if she drifted off or not. She does that, sometimes. Often. She loses herself to her thoughts, and sometimes she when she comes back, she’s screaming. Nobody looks alarmed, but they are and pretend they aren’t, and she’s acutely aware of her trembling knuckles, and digs her nails into her skin, willing them to stop. She tries to pay no mind to it but it’s impossible not to notice, something that will eat away at her for hours on end. She tries to direct her gaze more centred on Mags. “You said something about pancakes?”

Mags asks kindly, “Would you like some?”

 

 

It’s good to know that Thetis hasn’t changed, still worrying over her son, and gossiping about anything and everything that comes her way, especially romantic prospects. If the gossip is juicy enough, sometimes the eggs come free.

Her mother doesn’t pay much mind to Thetis, but there’s always an edge of reserve that somehow increases the longer she stays in her presence. For some reason, Thetis has always been oblivious, carefree and chatting at people, and some offhand comment always makes Sophie narrow her eyes and say nothing at all. It happens enough that it almost makes one wonder if Thetis is doing it on purpose.

It’s almost enough to make her laugh.

It’s good to see some things haven’t changed. It’s a relief, at least, that makes her chest loosen, feel lighter.

(And then suddenly, it tightens, and she can’t breathe, she has to — she has to hide from all this because the last time she let her guard down Teddy —)

 

 

“You could have said yes,” Sophie says, later that day, rubbing her back, small circles that are meant to be reassuring, that _are_ reassuring. “You didn’t have to say —”

“I know,” she says, staring at her hands, trying to relax. She shrugs, wondering if the knots in her shoulders will every go away. “I just — I just.”

“Okay,” Sophie murmurs, reaching out to brush her daughter’s hair back.

She flinches.

 

 

The next day Zeke asks her if she wants to go to the market, and she shakes her head.

“Okay,” Her father says, nodding, then asks, “what are you going to do today, Annie?”

He’s being doing that lately, whenever they meet during the breakfast table. He still has to work, it seems, or maybe he just won’t quit. Whatever reason it is, Zeke makes sure to ask her what her plan for the day is in the morning, or what she did in the evening if he missed her.

 _Words_. She tries to tell herself. She has to use words.  Even when her throat feels raw and every time she speaks there’s a hoarseness that won’t go away.

Sometimes she tells him that she plans to read a book, write a letter, think of a way to make this place seem more habitable. Sometimes she tries to lie, always for shit. But mostly she tells him this:

“I don’t know,” she admits, lowering her head. “I just want to be left alone.”

“You can’t do that forever,” Zeke says, looking worried, and tries to take her hand, squeeze it reassuringly. Her hand feels limp and weak in his, so small and fragile. Something meant to be broken. At first, he let her be, and then the last few times he’s said that in response. She wonders what’s changed. How much time has passed since she’s returned to District Four.

“I know,” she says, feeling tired. All she wants to do is sleep. Maybe today she won’t scream. “Just a little bit longer. Please.”

 

 

There are some days that she spends curled up in her bed, lights dimmed, and there’s a deep sense of lethargy ingrained in her bones so she couldn’t get up even if she wanted to. Her limbs won’t move, and she’s paralysed, heart racing, thudding so panicked that she doesn’t know why her heart won’t burst out her chest because clearly it wants _out_ , it wants more than these four walls, these dimmed light that seeps through the curtains, it wants to go to a place beyond the market and collect the remnant of a seashell. And no matter how much she tries, she can never be enough. Her heart might as well leave without her, leave her behind to rot, because it’s all she deserves.

Days like that, she hears Philomena’s laughter pressed inside her skull until she hears nothing else.

 

 

The rain might help, she thinks, one day, but District Four has been nothing but clear skies. She misses the sound of the rain, flicked against the window pane. She misses the scent of it after the rain has fallen, sticking to the ground. How long has it been since District Four last rained?

 

 

Sleep. Eat. Walk. Eat. Sleep.

It’s a series of actions that mean nothing at all to her, but it makes the clock hands on the wall a full circle. Slowly, but surely.

It never gives her dreamless nights, but she hopes, she hopes, she hopes.

 

 

A month passes, and Ron knocks on the door.

“Neighbour,” Ron says, hands in his pockets, stubble on his face. He looks more comfortable, somehow. Still grouchy and grumpy, but more relaxed. It’s not at all like after she was proclaimed the victor, and he was more terse and despondent, looking at her like he wasn’t looking at her at all.

Only victors visit victors. The rest of the district leaves them alone, it seems.

That’s not true, she remembers an instant later. Neptune came to visit, other friends tried too, but at that point, she didn’t want to see anyone. Not her boyfriend, not even her friends.

“Neighbour,” she echoes, feeling like she’s submerged underwater, trying to drain out yesterday’s emotions and today’s nightmares.

“Muscida hasn’t stopped by here, has he?” He asks, scowling a little, and it’s almost enough to make her smile at how resentful he sounds. That the dynamics are still the same.

“No, why?” She asks, tilting her head.

“Does he really need a reason?” Ron huffs, chest heaving, and she presses her lips to hide a slight smile. He stands tall, pleased by the news, her reaction. “Alright, well, that’s something at least.”

“Is that a warning?” She asks, almost curious.

“He’s the one who needs a warning,” Ron grumbles, brows furrowed. “That man should have an announcer and tell everyone to run for the hills.”

“He’s not that bad,” she says, tempting fate. He was nice to Teddy, which deserves some merit in her opinion. “Surely.”

“Humph,” Ron grunts, completely unimpressed. In a resigned tone, he says, “Spend some time with him, then you’ll see.”

“Is that an invitation?” She says, lifting an eyebrow, and this is familiar territory, not fresh wounds and trying to turn the clocks on the wall back, back, back.

“No,” Ron scowls, surly. “It  _wasn’t.”_

She can’t help it. She smiles. She doesn’t know why it’s the most comforting thing she’s had in a while.

“Why are you here, Ron?” She asks, after a moment, cutting the small talk short. She’s never had much patience for it, but it’s been pleasant enough.

“Depends if you’re going to let me in or not,” Ron says, pushing his shoulders back. His voice lowers as he leans forward. “I’m not going to discuss it out here.”

In that case —

“Make yourself at home,” she says, stepping back. Might as well let someone in. Might as well be her mentor.

 

 

“You’re looking better, Annie,” Ron comments with a grin, inside as he gazes around her new house. It’s the first time she’s seen him look happy.

“I don’t,” she starts, staring past him, gaze unfocused somewhat, so she doesn’t have to look at him. Wonders if her parents put him up to this. “I don’t feel better.”

“Yeah,” Ron murmurs, understanding. His smile fades, and Ron sighs, as he sits down on the sofa, “I didn’t start feeling better until after the Victory Tour. But you do look better.”

“How did you start feeling better?” She asks, hoping that he has the answers to rid her from this stasis, this numb and stagnant existence. 

“Time. That old cliché. It’s not a quick fix, and it doesn’t always work, Annie, but for most part, you’d be surprised how much you can hide,” Ron says, simply, and there’s a hidden meaning in that, to be sure, but right now she’s can’t afford to think on it. It’s something to figure out later.

“I don’t think I can,” she says. It’s coded in her bloodstream, taken from her father’s love. Annie Cresta is not a liar, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever get over it. Fewer things are setting her off, but still, everything feels raw and fresh and painful. Her heart races and her hands shake, trying to remember the meaning of braveness, even though she’s been told that it’s okay that she doesn’t have to be brave any more. She isn’t trying to be brave; she’s merely trying to  _be_.

And yet even trying just to _be_ is some form of bravery, it seems.

“It’s not linear,” Ron leans forward, turning solemn in the blink of an eye, and it’s the days spent together in the Capitol all over again, slipping into his role of being her mentor. That look in his eye, the instinct she has to listen to him. To trust in his advice. “Some days there are good days, other days it’s bad, and sometimes, there are days.”

“There are bad days, and there are days,” she says, in careful agreement, slowly but warily.

Good days don’t exist. They can’t possibly exist when the walls feel like they’re closing in and there’s no escape. When there’s blood under her fingernails, and dried on her face. When she sees someone from the Arena out of the corner of her eye. There are days sometimes, sure, but they are few and far between. Mostly all days are bad days.

“What do you do on those days?” Ron asks, taking interest and she knows that he must have experienced something similar, but she’s still left feeling unsure on how to proceed.

When in doubt, always go for the truth.

“I stay here. Go to the market sometimes,” Annie shrugs, chin angled so she’s left staring at the table instead. It sounds pathetic, she knows. No sort of life at all, but it’s the only bearable part. She sighs deeply, mouth ajar. “I just. Most of the time I don’t want to leave my bed. I just want to sleep the day away.”

She takes naps, often. Long naps in between meals. Naps after she eats, and goes to the market. It’s enough, she reasons. Eat. Sleep. Dream. Dream incessantly. Dream and scream. Scream and dream. It sounds so stupid when she’s awake. But it’s almost worth it on the off chance that she dreams of nothing at all and wakes up not feeling tired.

“What about your friends?” He asks, changing topics, and she’s relieved that he merely asks another question. “Do you visit them?”

She thinks about Coral and Neptune, about Juniper and Ezri, a classmate named Joe, and a boy she once traded her bracelets for a fish called Sam. She thinks about every time Sophie and Zeke tell her that her friends are at the door, and she didn’t want to see them, asking in a muffled voice to turn them away.

They know what she’s done. What she had to do. What she became.

She doesn’t say anything.

“It’s hard, I know, but you should try and do the things you used to do. Hang out with your old friends. It’s worth a shot, right? Since staying here and going to the market don’t seem to be helping much,” Ron says, letting his words sink in. Silence exists between them for some time before he speaks again. “It’s not that I don’t understand wanting to be cooped up here, and avoiding everybody, but, if you ever get bored, or if you want some company, my door is always open.”

“Is that why you came here?” Looking carefully at his face, she tries to search for some indication, something that will confirm her doubts, something that should be there but is missing because she doesn’t have all the clues to understand what he’s trying to say. “To give me some advice?”

“Came here to see how you were doing, Annie,” Ron says, brusque and blunt and to the point. She believes him. He’s never been one to sugar coat things. “We take care of our own. If I didn’t come around, it would have been Mags or Muscida, at some point.”

All the old victors, she can’t help but notice.

“Mags offered me pancakes once,” Annie mentions, offhand. She’s not sure why she says it, but she feels like she can trust Ron with this information. “We met on the way to the market.”

“Did you try them?” When she shakes her head, he shrugs. “Shame. She’s an excellent cook. When you meet her again, Mags will probably tell you that the offer is always open. Also, if she hasn’t mentioned it yet, she holds dinners once a month. For us victors to attend. I reckon she does it so the train journeys aren’t so awkward.”

“Does it work?” Curiosity gets the best of her, and she can’t help but think of they way they act towards each other on the way to the Capitol and at the Capitol, and if it differs to how they are in District Four.

“Say yes to Mags and find out,” Ron drawls, a challenge in his teasing tone, and it’s tempting to say yes right now. Yes, she just might. But she won’t tell him just yet.

“Why didn’t you visit me earlier?” Annie asks, changing subject, soft and uncertain.

Truth be told, she doesn’t know if her parents would act as mediums if a victor came to their door, if her parents would have turned them away. She opened the door because she didn’t know how long the knocks would last, or if she’d missed her chance, successfully pushing her friends away, and hoped that it was —

“I thought it was best to let you be,” Ron admits, bluntly. “Look, I get it.  The first few weeks are the roughest. It’s not easy to returning to District Four, to a new house, and people expect you to be… more than you are. People think that you’re fine because you won the Games, or they think you’re mad because of one shit interview. Everyone’s got opinions, and everyone knows who you are. And in the meantime, there’s you, trying to get by, like we all do, trying to avoid all this attention. It’s overwhelming, and the Capitol sure as hell don’t help, and I wasn’t sure I could give you the stability that’s needed. Being your mentor in the Capitol is one thing, being your mentor in District Four is another. Hell, coming to terms with being a victor takes a long time.”

She lets the words settle and process the extent of what he said before she forms a response.

“So why now? What changed?”

“It’s been a month. I thought to myself, that’s enough time to give you space.  I wanted to see how you were doing. I wanted to let you know that you’re not alone,” Ron says, and it strikes her then that there’s no beverage in his hand. This is the first time she’s seen him without a drink nearby. “You live in a neighbourhood of victors. We’ve all been where you are now, and I understand how difficult this is.”

 “I can’t go back,” Annie says, apropos of nothing, needing the confirmation, needing him to repeat the words, and to accept that she isn’t the person he knew for less than a week, and when he does, it won’t feel like absolution or damnation, it will sound tired but it will be enough. It will be enough for now.

One victor to another.

“No one can,” Ron says, and the tears fall without her permission, like the first night she got here, and woke up and sat by the stairs. She blinks, but the tears still fall. Her eyes sting. “No one is the same after the Games.”

“I don’t,” Annie tries to wipe the tears off her face, her hand comes away wet. She lowers her voice into a whisper. “I don’t think I came back at all. _”_

Matter of fact, he says, “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“No. I’m different. I want —” Here’s the thing: she doesn’t know what she wants. She’s turned into a different person and doesn’t recognize herself at all. Her parents don’t understand that. Her parents will never understand that. But Ron — Ron _might_. Ron will. Ron has lived through it, survived. Had years to become the person he is now. “I want to be myself again. I want to be who I was before the reaping. I want the nightmares to go away. I want — I’m so  _sick_ of waking up screaming.”

And she’s so angry that all this emotion is bursting out of her when she thought she was doing so well — but now this anger is white hot and scorching, building inside her as she’s been wallowing here. She’s desperate, at the end of her rope; she needs someone to tell her that it gets better, that she can get through this. She knows she can’t go back to being the person she used to be, but she wants that lie so badly.

Ron looks at her, and she knows in that instant that he won’t be the one to offer her words of comfort. He could say anything right now, and it wouldn’t be enough because it’s not what she wants to hear. He won’t lead her on with false hope. He can’t give her a solution. He can’t tell her quickest way to get through this.

“Maybe someday, the nightmares will go away, or you’ll stop screaming. For that, you need more time, and you have plenty of it. I wish it was that easy, that time will be enough. It won’t be. Some days it’ll feel like you’re crashing and its day one after the Games all over again. And it sounds impossible, I know, but it’ll be okay. You’ll get there. You adjust, believe me. You’re still adjusting, and everything is messy, but you’re still you. You still have your memories. Your friendships. Your family. Keep that in mind, alright?” Ron says, gazing intently at her, and she cannot look away. “Just take it at your own pace. Do things that feel normal. Try new things. But remember, you are not alone, and if you ever need to talk, I’ll listen.”

“Do you still dream of it?” Annie asks, carefully, perfectly still as she holds her breath.

“Sometimes,” Ron says, nodding. “It’s not something easily forgotten. It changes a person. But then I tell myself, you don’t win the Games by chance. That strength was in you all along. You’re strong, you’re a survivor, you can do this.”

“Even when —”

“Even then,” Ron says, and silence once more exists because she has nothing to say in light of that. He takes a deep breath, chest heaving, expression turning grave, and she wonders what could possibly merit such a face.

He clears his throat.

“Listen, Annie, there’s something you need to know about your Game. I should have told you before, on the train, but I… I couldn’t do it. Told myself it wasn’t the right time. That’s bullshit, there’s never going to be right time.”

She steels herself, taking a deep breath. “What is it?”

“The Capitol isn’t happy with you.”

 

 

Annie wakes up, throat dry, her nightmare too much to remain asleep. She’s woken up with this feeling before, the sensation of her hands holding the last tribute in place as she knifed him through his heart. She dreams about that moment, and wonders, did she really have to kill him? Would it have been worse to watch him drown? Would it have been worse if she pushed the blade through her own? She dreams of the Games, over and over, when she’s asleep and when she’s awake, and she asks herself, in the quiet break of day, was it worth it? Was any of it worth it? 

Annie wakes, and feels the weight of his body in water, in air, in her hands, and pushes herself out of bed.

 

 

“What are you going to do today?” Zeke Cresta asks, pouring her a cup of coffee.

“I’m going to visit home, Dad,” she says, finding a victory in her father’s smile. 

 

 

Her old house feels so small now. Too cluttered and dusty, brimming with memories and painted seashell bracelets. As she coughs and steps forward, Annie closes her eyes and breathes it in. 

It all seems so far away, this part of her. It still feels like a different person lived here, a different Annie, and she supposes it’s true, she’s changed since then. But she still has the memories of this cramped and homely place, the higgledy-piggledy shelves that belonged to her father, the crisp set of tea cups that belongs to her mother, and the somewhat neat collection of seashell scattered under the wooden table.

It means something, accepting that she’s different but the same, acknowledging that Ron might have had a point, after all.

She doesn’t mean to wake up, an hour later, curled up in her old bed that creaks as she stretches her limbs, but sometimes these things just happen.

 

 

"Oh no. No, Annie, you do _not_ trade one house for another just to _sleep_ ,” Sophie Cresta admonishes, arms crossed, leaning above her. “If you come to our old home, even without me, you still have to clean and make sure this house is spotless.”

“Then I can sleep?” Annie asks, somewhat sceptically, still groggy, which of course earns a  _look._

“We’ll see,” Sophie says, rolling her eyes, meaning yes. 

 

 

It becomes part of their routine. Annie tidies and dusts, then pretends that she goes to sleep. She stares at the ceiling like she does in her new home, and listens to the sound of the sea, the rain that hits the windowsill, the odd symphony of rain meets wave, and let’s herself mourn for things can never be the same.

She misses it.

District Four hasn’t rained in such a long time. It’s spat and drizzled and showered, but that’s not the kind of rain that Annie wants. The kind of rain that promised thunder across the sea and sea witches bubbling from under the piers, the rickety boats and the grumbling fisherman. The rain that promised storms.

Rain that Annie used to love. Rain that Annie still loves.

She wants to feel that kind of rain on her skin again.

 

 

Something changes within her as she ventures back and forth between her two homes. It’s a gradual thing, but she becomes bolder, maybe, as she familiarizes herself with the streets she used to roam through. She finds herself thinking about memories that don’t seem so distant, so painful. She finds herself nostalgic. Willing to retrace old footsteps. Wanting to renew old friendships.

Not yet, Annie thinks, her heart unsteady, longing, but soon.

 

 

She stands for such a long time, staring at the door, willing herself to do something. Walk forward, walk away. Walk.

One step, then another.

The coat of blue paint cracks under her knuckles.

Deep breath, then another.

“Annie.”

“Hi,” Annie says, voice small. Trembling. It’s been a month and half and, what is she supposed to say? She’s thought about this moment for so long and still she doesn’t have the words. What do you say when something like this happens? “I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

“C’mere,” Coral Ellis says, and it’s such a  _relief_  in those words, to hear those words, the emotion swelling inside her like a balloon, that Annie nearly starts weeping as she clings to her best friend, holding onto her like a stable kind of happiness. They’re still friends, even now. “How long have you been bottling that up?”

Air heaves from her chest, and it’s a shaky attempt at a smile, at gratitude, and the beginning of maybe —

“A while,” she admits, shoulders slumped. It’s so strange that she can feel like she can breathe a little easier now.

Go visit your friends. Her parents said. Ron said. They miss you.

Why hadn’t she listened?

“Yeah, I had a feeling,” Coral says, shaking her head. “Want something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.” Annie says, wiping her cheek, drawing back. She’ll eat if food is put in front of her. She’ll eat calmly and mechanically, chewing until there’s nothing to chew on anymore and she has to swallow. But she’s never particularly hungry these days.

“Hm. Alright, then let’s take a walk. How does that sound?” Coral asks, peering at her, and waits for her to nod in the affirmative. “We can catch the sunset, just like we used to.”

“Sounds nice,” Annie agrees, falling into step with her oldest friend.

 

 

There’s a small beach in District Four comprised of pebbles and pock-marked stones that is Coral goes to whenever she feels like being alone. Not many people tend to bother her there. It feels like their secret, most of the time. It’s such a removed place that Annie wonders if Coral went there during the Games.

“Spit it out,” Coral says, making herself comfortable, legs gracefully tucked under her. “Whatever it is, Annie. I can handle it.”

They both brace themselves, and she stares at her knees, nails digging into her palms.

Like a plaster. Just rip it off. The quicker, the better.

“I’m sorry,” Annie says, swearing that she’ll say it to Coral and Teddy’s parents too. They need to hear this from her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save Teddy. I don’t — I don’t know how you don’t hate me.”

“Is that why you stayed away? Why you didn’t let any of us see you?” Coral asks, softly. Throwaway strands of flaxen hair are being lifted in the breeze. “You thought…”

“I didn’t know _what_ you’d think of me,” Annie admits, softer than a whisper, and it’s so hard to admit this even though it must be the most obvious thing in the world. That she’s scared. That she’s been terrified this past month, dreading what might happen if they suddenly encounter each other in the market, on the journeys back and forth her two homes, and if she’s not being careful, aware of the eggshells being tread around her, that she’d —

She’d talked about it to Ron, to her parents, weighing their opinion against her guilt, letting the fear paralyze her until she thought to herself, she _had_ to do this. Move forward. One step at a time.

“Annie,” Coral says, blue eyes intent on looking at her, and she’s utterly unable to hide. All her feelings are laid open. Written all over her face. “Listen to me. I’m _glad_ you’re back. I’m glad you came to see me. I’m glad you’re _alive_.”

“I tried,” Annie mumbles, voice ragged, and suddenly everything bursts out of her in a panic, like she can’t breathe until she gets this out. “Coral, I swear, I tried to save him. I tried to protect him and I just — I —”

“I know,” Coral says, fingers curled around her shoulder, painfully, painfully gentle, the lightest of touch, like an anchor to tether her from losing herself. She doesn’t — Annie doesn’t deserve this. “I saw.”

It’s there on the tip of her tongue, a pearl in her mouth.

“I wanted him to win,” she says, inaudible. “I thought you would never forgive me if I didn’t try —”

“Hey,” Coral says, fingertips barely grazing Annie’s cheek, brushing the hair that falls over her face behind her ear. She’s so close. “You did your best. You did the best you could, and I’m glad that you looked out for Teddy. Thank you, Annie. No one could have predicted what that District One tribute did.”

Coral must have been furious, heartbroken, watching her brother die, unable to do anything. Annie thinks, leaving her thoughts unspoken, misery on her face.

“You don’t need to be forgiven, Annie,” Coral says, firmly, refusing to look away, the intensity is tearing through her. “You don’t have to apologize; I know you loved Teddy. So don’t think I hate you. I just got you back, got that?”

“Okay,” Annie says, eventually, flushing, cheeks feeling like rust. She thinks about what Ron said, takes a deep breath and nods. Avoiding them won’t protect them. She won’t hide herself away. And she feels better, somehow, reconnecting with Coral, picking up threads of her old life. She won’t alienate herself anymore. “Okay.”

 

 

It’s stupid of her, to think that it would only get better after that. She still wakes up screaming sometimes, other times, she’s crying. Some days she can buy food at the market quietly enough, and then sometimes she can’t get out of bed at all.

There are bad days, and then there days.

But sometimes, when she nibbling at her father’s hardboiled egg, and her parents are talking about the seagulls again, that it almost feels like it could be a good day.

 

 

“Here,” Jules says, handing her a chocolate bar. They’re standing far away from the market place, some quiet place where she can regain her thoughts. A cafe. His, she recognizes eventually, though the layout has changed. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

The wrapper crinkles as Annie tears it open. It’s surprisingly sweet. It’s such a rarity to eat chocolate that Annie forgets how much of a fuss is made whenever the Capitol lets District Four have some. Jules’ cafe always advertises it whenever it’s in stock, that’s always quick to have sold out after the first week.

“Been busy,” Annie mutters, taking another bite. “Thanks, though. Must have cost you a fortune.”

“I happen to know the right people,” He smiles, elusive. His sea green eyes glitter behind his glasses. “And you’re lucky I caught you. Another day and I’m sure I would have run out.”

“I guess,” Annie frowns. She’s only come to this place once or twice. Maybe a bit more than that. She wouldn’t really call herself a regular. But Jules recognized her in the market, and that’s when they mainly talked. She looks down at the counter. 

It’s too much sometimes, the isolation that exists in District Four. Like she’s a fish swimming against the current. Everyone’s staring at her, and it’s all in her head. She’s getting better at ignoring them, but every now and then she slips up. In all honesty, she thinks they’ll lose interest soon, if they haven’t already. Although, it would be easier if she stopped feeling so self-conscious about it.

“I have to go,” she says, feeling bone tired, wanting to take a nap again. It’s exhausting, this ache inside of her, a numbing tiredness that never goes away. She just wants to go to sleep now. Be left alone some more. She can stand more interaction with people, these days, but it still takes a toll on her. “Thanks for the chocolate. It was nice seeing you again.”

Maybe it’s all in her head. But even alone, she feels like she’s being watched. It feels like —

It feels like the Capitol want to watch her descend into madness. 

“Annie,” Jules says, and she stops. “You can always come here, if you need some ice cream, and a beautiful view of the sea. First one’s on the house.”

“That a marketing ploy?” Annie quips with a smile, recognizing a pitch when she hears one.

“Maybe. Want to come back later and see if it works?” He grins, and even though in all likeliness the mad victor coming to Jules’ cafe would probably lower business, Annie can’t help but grin widely in return.

 

 

She doesn’t expect Librae to be at the door.

“I thought this was Ron’s house?” Annie says slowly, blinking at her.

“Yeah, it is,” Librae nods, bluntly, her curly hair in ringlets, bouncing with sunlight and water. Her hair looks darker wet. The door widens. She looks over her shoulder, then shrugs, and looks back at Annie. “If you want to see him, he’s probably in the garden.”

Ron’s house isn’t what she expected. From a pretty grouchy old man, she expects… the walls to be seeped in surliness, some kind of mess. Not enough to be noticeable, but enough to say that this house has been lived in. There are books here; spines left wide open, dog-eared and yellowing. There are pictures on the walls, of varying calibres, and Annie doesn't know what to make of it. The air smells distinctly of perfume. Maybe that’s just Librae, though.

There’s a vase full of flowers.

“Doing what?” Annie asks, curious, dragging her eyes back to Librae.

“Ron things.” Librae answers simply, like that’s all the explanation that is needed. Her expression softens, and seemingly deciding to take pity on her, elaborates. “Gardening, I bet. He does that a lot. Practically renovated my house when… when. Yeah.”

“Huh,” Annie says, considering, not knowing what to say to that. Ron gardens. It surprises her, she thinks, absently, she didn’t expect Ron to be a gardener. He’d never mentioned that it was a hobby of his. Then Annie wonders what Librae was going to say before she stopped herself. When what?

“Yeah, well,” Librae lifts her shoulder, lets it drop. “You want to come in?”

Annie half-smiles. “It’s why I knocked.”

Librae smirks, stepping aside. “Then by all means, enter.”

 

 

“You're here,” Ron says, gruffly, the smile evident in his voice, the second Librae drolly calls his attention. He stands up, dirt on his overalls. “I was wondering when you’d drop by. Excellent. Now, how much do you know about gardening?”

“I’m going to go back to my book,” Librae rolls her eyes, completely disinterested in remaining here any longer, especially when it’s so sunny. “You’re not involving me in this.”

“Suit yourself,” Ron shrugs, paying her no mind. There’s dirt on his face too, smudged over the bridge of his nose. It becomes more apparent the more Annie walks towards him. “Annie?”

Her mouth is dry. She thinks back to his question, mind drawing a blank. “Um. Not much.”

“Okay,” Ron nods, kindly offering, “you want to learn?”

“Sure.”

She had come here to talk to him, but it can wait. This seems like a good distraction, something to take her mind off things. Shyly, she asks, “I don’t need to change clothes or anything, do I?”

“If you’re alright with a bit of dirt, then you’ll be fine,” Ron answers, shaking his head, stepping into the role of mentor once more. “Alright, so we begin like this…”

 

 

They start by pulling out the weeds, and because Annie enjoys it so much, she comes by the next week, and the week after that. Librae is there, sometimes, catnapping on the grass, on the table, on the sofa. There’s always a book in her hand, for some reason.

“Rookie mistake,” Ron remarks, smirking when he catches Annie glancing one too many time. “She never learns. Warm air and reading books, I swear, it sets you straight to sleep. You’ll never get through a book like that.”

 

 

She talks more to her parents these days. Asks them how their day is going, if there’s anything she can do to help, if they want anything in the market. It feels a lot like progress. Reaching out and embracing her life instead of shutting herself inside. She talks about Coral, what she does in the day without being prompted. She talks about the garden she’s cultivating with Ron, wonders if it’s possible to build her own. She thinks about Mags’ invitation for pancakes, wonders when the next one is.

 

 

Annie goes to the pier, and doesn’t push her thoughts away.

She thinks about her and Neptune Jones, before all of this happened, and how she wants to see him again. She’s a little bit afraid — now that she’s met her soulmate, how does it affect does her relationship with him? A relationship doesn’t change just because she’s met a stranger, who one day might become a friend. Should a relationship change just because she met her soulmate, who might or might not become her romantic other? Would it?

She’s never really had the chance to know her soulmate, even though they live in the same area. Is that strange? She hasn’t seen Muscida either. Maybe it’s fine this way. They keep to themselves, as does Annie. She has no overwhelming desire seek him out. But maybe there’s a chance that she’ll get to know either of them better at Mags’ monthly dinners, in spite of Ron’s consternations, his muttering about how Muscida will bug the crap out of her with bullshit talk regarding soulmates. Muscida’s glaring flaw. 

Well, Annie can handle it. She’s no stranger to the topics of soulmates, and being apathetic to the content, no matter who it was concerning.

No matter how briefly she thinks on it, she doesn’t think that Finnick Odair is the type of person people fall in love with for real, brushing them off with an enigmatic smile.

She thinks about what she said about soulmates to Teddy, to Coral, how her attitude has been made to change because the Capitol forced her to wear a Timer, and the odds weren’t in her favour.

She thinks about Neptune Jones, who she called her true love in front of everybody, defying the stupid device on her wrist.

He’s worth the risk, Annie knows, her heart beating rapidly. She’s ready to see Neptune Jones again, and smile goofily at the boy who made her laugh time and time again, and her Timer was something she could strip away from him like sunlight.

 

 

On the night before Annie had left for the Capitol, Neptune picked up a pebble, threw it into the water and said, “Soulmate. What does that mean anyway?”

At the time, Annie had said, “Nothing.”

At the time, Annie had said, “It doesn’t have to mean _anything._ ”

At the time, Annie hadn’t been sure, but she wanted to believe so badly that she was right.

 

 

“Hey, Jones,” Annie says, bashful. Feelings of warmth, of missing him, of loving him, flood through her. She’s nervous, but bolstered by a new confidence. “I heard you’ve been knocking at my door. But I must have missed you, so I thought maybe it’s my turn to give it a try.”

“Hey, Cresta.” Neptune says, grinning lopsidedly, his eyes wet as he reaches out to touch her, proof that she’s really here. He wears her bracelet. “Is that. Is that a line?”

“Maybe,” Annie says, heat blossoming over her cheeks, feeling coy. “Is it working?”

“Maybe,” Neptune says, and their foreheads bump together, and they breathe each other in, the intimacy that they’ve missed. “I’ve missed you.”

“Me too,” Annie murmurs, “I’m sorry I didn’t see you sooner.”

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re here now.” 

They kiss sweetly, softly, on his porch. Annie tilts her head up and savours the taste of sunlight on her lips, how her pulse quickens when he wraps his arms around her, and he sighs blissfully after it ends.

Her heart remains unchanged.

“Worth the wait?” Annie asks, with a smile, trying to hide her apprehensiveness with mirth.

“To the moon and back,” Jones says, mouth widening into a smile, and she can’t believe she forgot that sometimes he says equally as cheesy things as she does. Then he sobers, worry creased into all of features, erasing his gorgeous grin. “How are you?”

“Better,” Annie says, taking his hand, delighted that they still fit perfectly. “Not one hundred percent, but not as bad as I used to be, either. I’m trying to take it one day at a time. What about you?”

“Could be worse,” Neptune Jones says, his hazel eyes looking brown in this angle. “But you know, I’m suddenly feeling so much better.”

 

 

They go to Jules' cafe, sit somewhere at the back where they won’t be disturbed.

“What was your soulmate like?” Neptune asks, brown hair tousled by the breeze. He asks, wide eyed and uncertain, unsure how to proceed. All the rumours, all the thoughts, all the possibilities must be swirling in his head. The Timer on his wrist is gone, replaced by his trick Timer, hiding the scar. He picks at it, a nervous habit of his.

“Are you sure you want to know?” Annie asks, feeling daunted. She thinks of Teddy, of Finnick.

No one ever tells you what you’re supposed to do in situations like this. The feelings you have for one person — they don’t just disappear, just like _that_ , just because you find out they’re not your soulmate. What are you supposed to do when you have a soulmate and don’t want one? What are you supposed to do when the person you want to be with isn’t your soulmate?

The truth is, she may have changed as a person, but there’s still a part of her that is in love with Jones.

His mouth sets into a frown, and he doesn’t say anything. Annie watches Neptune Jones, the furrowing of his brow as he mulls over his final decision.

“Yeah, I do. I mean, you called me your true love, Cresta. Even after you met your soulmate,” Neptune says, wonder in his eyes, and Annie swallows. It seems impossible to believe that the last time they had seen each other, the day after she was going to meet her soulmate. “That’s… that’s pretty awesome, you know?”

“I was just being honest,” Annie mumbles, cheeks warming. She played up aspects of herself in the interview, but on this, this quiet defiance that only a few people knew about, she couldn’t help but state the truth, in some oblique way. She called Neptune her soulmate because that was who Annie loved best in all of Panem.

“I know,” Neptune smiles, and her heart skips a beat. “But c’mon, now I _have_ to know who my competition is.”

“Well, okay,” Annie says, stumbling over words, and it’s so strange, how comfortably she falls back into their relationship, like she hasn’t changed at all. Just for a moment, she can believe in it. “He’s… not what I expected.”

Nobody expects Finnick Odair.

Neptune Jones raises an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Is that good or bad?”

“Um. I don’t know. We haven’t talked much,” Annie mulls, thinking about it. “I asked if it was possible to be friends, and… he’s kind of getting back to me on that one.”

“Huh.”

She shrugs, looks at her wrist and presses her lips together. “I’m going to go with no.”

“Wait, is he a tribute or not?” Jones says, touching her wrist delicately, his expression turning worried as he gazes at the blank numbers. “You said he was gone. Doesn’t that mean that he’s dead?”

“Not necessarily,” Annie murmurs, answering Neptune’s last question first. “Oh, yeah. I did say that he was gone, in my last interview. Um.”

“Kinda confused here,” Neptune says with a nervous smile.

“Um, well. Hang on, I’m getting there,” Annie says, trying to build up to it. She’s never admitted her soulmate’s name to anyone before. It’s hard, and Annie feels incredibly self-conscious and awkward, and everything she blurts out is somewhat jumbled. “No, um, he’s alive; he just decided to remove his Timer. Sometime during the Games. He wasn’t a tribute. Is a victor.”

Annie tenses, and lower her voice into a whisper, even though the café s bustling enough  and she’s pretty certain no one is listening in on their conversation anyway.

Drumroll please.

“Is in fact Finnick Odair.”

_“Holy shit!”_

His jaw drops.

“Yeah!” Annie nods, mirroring his complete surprise. It feels good to discuss this. Finally. “I thought it was going to be a tribute! But no! It was  _that victor!”_

“Jeez,” Neptune Jones says, still awed, his voice breathless. “And, um, how was the actual meeting between… wow. Um. Between you two?”

“Um. I don’t think it was great?”

Barring the fact that she’d been certain that she was on her way to her death, and the fact that having a soulmate was the least of her worries, the whole finding who your soulmate is was kind of underwhelming in general. Maybe it should have been a momentous occasion, but Annie has difficulty trying to dredge it up and recall exact details.

She has a vague feeling that Finnick thought that her reaction was pretty disappointing though.

Annie shrugs, tucks a wayfaring strand of hair behind her ear. “I had other things on my mind at the time. But I mean, whoever my soulmate was going to be, finding it out during the Hunger Games? Was going to be pretty fucking inconvenient either way. So, yeah. Not great.”

“Fair enough,” Neptune nods, pausing before asking. “So what was he like?”

“He wasn’t as… larger than life as I thought he would be,” Annie admits, thinking back. She tilts her head, reminiscing. “Then again, I couldn’t really say. We only talked once or twice at the Capitol, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Because of me?” Neptune asks, somewhat puzzled.

“I don’t think so,” Annie shakes her head, teeth worrying her lip. It might be, but she doubts it. “He didn’t mention anything about my interviews, so if it bothers him, I wouldn’t know. I doubt it, Jones. He’s just, never around.”

He seemed so bright and untouchable in the Capitol. Like there’s something coruscating about him, designed to make him even more alluring for those he does call his string of lovers.

Annie may not be avoiding Finnick Odair, but it’s not like she’s seeking him out either.

“You should have seen Teddy whenever he was near Finnick,” Annie says instead, determined not to dwell on the subject of soulmates. It’s getting easier to talk about the Games, the parts that don’t hurt as much, the parts that aren’t as scary, but are tinged with fear and sadness nonetheless. “He was so impressed with him. Ridiculously impressed. I mean, Teddy would not stop following him and asking him questions, and it was adorable. Like a dream come true for Teddy.”

“Did Teddy know?”

“No,” Annie shakes her head. “You’re the first person that I’ve…”

“Oh,” Neptune blinks, his voice soft. “Not even your parents?”

“Soulmates isn’t a big thing for my parents,” Annie shrugs, “Since they’re not soulmates, and they’re happy with each other, I figure, it doesn’t matter who I end up with as long as I’m happy.”

“They haven’t asked?”

“No,” Annie states simply. Maybe they’re waiting for her to tell them, but then again, it’s entirely possible that they’re not interested.

“Huh,” Neptune Jones says with a quirk of a smile, trying to take it in, and be positive. Nevertheless, he perseveres with his questions. “So… why do you think you two are soulmates?”

“No idea,” Annie shrugs, genuinely clueless. “I can't see any reason why we should be. But hey, like I said, it doesn’t matter that I’ve found my soulmate. I don’t care, and he’s made his own feelings perfectly clear.”

“His loss,” Neptune says, almost playful, “I’ve always wanted to meet him.” 

“You’ve never told me that before,” Annie says, certain that he’s teasing her, as Jones her wrist without the Timer and kisses it. She can feel the press of his lips against her skin, ghosting over her, and she swallows. “Now you know, are you going hold it against me?”

“Cresta,” Jones says with a crooked smile, “You told all of Panem that I’m your true love.”

“Yeah,” Annie says, and she’d do it again in a heartbeat, blinking back the tears of joy. “So I guess the real questions are, am I yours? What about your own soulmate?”

“So, first, yes, you are. Most definitely,” Neptune nods, and Annie can’t help but tease.

“What?” Annie says, smirking. “You have to say it too.”

“You are, without a doubt, my true love,” Jones says, and she kisses him just for that. “Secondly, I changed my mind. I didn’t want to find out who my soulmate was. So I removed it. I mean, I was fine not knowing before, and if it wasn’t you, then, it changes nothing. I still love you.”

Some device can’t take that away.

“When?” Annie asks next, pensive. She peels the trick Timer away, revealing the scar on his wrist. She wonders if he pulled it off, thinking that it was going to be just like the trick one, or if he went back to the person from District Three and asked to make the removal as quick as possible.

“The day after you left,” Neptune tells her, hazel eyes flecked with green. “If it wasn’t you, then, I didn’t want to know. Doesn’t matter if they’d be my best friend for life, or someone I’d fall in love with. If it wasn’t you, then I’m fine never knowing who my soulmate would have been.”

 

 

It doesn’t matter what a soulmate means, or what the fuck a soulmate _is._

Annie and Neptune, Cresta and Jones, they choose each other: now, then, always.

 

 

She wakes up sweating in the dark of the night, Philomena’s laughter ringing in her ears, and she doesn’t know how long she stays still, breathing rapidly. She hasn’t had a nightmare that badly for a while.

“Annie,” Sophie says, at her side, turning on the light, “another bad dream?”

“Yeah,” Annie says, chest heaving, as she wills her heart to stop beating so fast. “I just. I just need a moment. Will you stay here?”

“Of course,” Sophie says, reaching out and touching her shoulder, squeezing gently. “I can handle your bad dreams.”

“The kraken,” Annie recalls with an exhale. “I was terrified of that book.”

“To say nothing about Davy Jones,” Sophie says, nostalgia tinting the cadence of her voice. “And yet, Annie, you made me read those stories to you every night.”

“You could have said no,” Annie points out.

“I distinctly _remember_ saying no, reminding you that you would get nightmares, but you wouldn’t listen,” Sophie retorts, unimpressed but fondly smiling. “You kept on saying that you wouldn’t, this time around, and each time, you would.”

“Yeah, but you believed me,” Annie mutters, though whinging makes her feel a little better.

“When have you been able to tell a successful lie?” Sophie lifts an eyebrow, and Annie is duly chastened, mortification rushing to her cheeks. “Remember what happened afterwards?”

“You’d get me a glass of water,” Annie murmurs, thinking back, “then put me back to bed.” 

“Let’s see if the same trick works twice,” Sophie says, patting the bed, a signal for Annie to join her in the kitchen. Mother she might be, but Sophie Cresta is nobody’s maid. 

“Just bad dreams,” Annie says, softly. She might not be a child any longer, but she appreciates the extent her mother takes care of her. That both her parents go to. “Thank you.”

 

 

She finds cans of paint while she cleans the old house’s shed, and pauses, coughing at the dust that floats in the white light. But it gives her an idea.

“What do you think?” Annie asks Zeke, then looks at her mother, beseeching. “It’ll be fun, right?”

“It certainly sounds like fun,” Zeke agrees, nodding. “Have you thought about what colours you’re going to use?”

“Yep,” Annie beams, and handing him her colour palette. It doesn’t have to be parent approved, but she’s willing to concede and give them a personal room to paint. 

“First shells, now walls,” Sophie says, looking at Annie like she doesn’t know what to make of her and her habits. “Alright, go ahead. Paint the town blue.”

“Green, dear. Sea green,” Zeke chimes in, triumphant, to Sophie’s amusement. “That’s how the expression goes.”

“I’m certain it doesn’t.”

 

 

She plans out the specifics with Coral and Neptune, whenever they have time to spare. In the meantime, she goes back to collecting and painting shells. They’re quick and easy distractions, not as time consuming as the sweeping arcs and W-patterns of paint on the walls, or moving the furniture into a different room. It’s comforting, to going back to painting, and just let herself let go.

 

 

“No, really, what’s this for?” Librae examines the bracelet Annie makes, painted purple with red dots. “Did I do something — wait, is that —  _is that an L?”_

“No reason, really. I just like making things,” Annie answers, unable to stop smiling. “I make them all the time for my friends.”

“All I’ve done is make lemonade. Sometimes,” Librae scowls. “That’s not worth a bracelet. At least tell me you’ve made one for Ron.”

“Mags too,” Annie says. She still hasn’t gone to any of the victor’s monthly dinners, even though she meant to, last month. But she’s talked to Mags a few times in the market, spent a few afternoons at her house, and eaten the allegedly delicious pancakes that were indeed delicious. In fact, Annie is going to go round to her house next and ask when the next meal is going to be.

“Brilliant,” Librae mutters to herself, and sighs, “I can’t wait to see his face. He’ll be ecstatic.” 

As it turns out, Ron is wears it proudly.

“Ever tried making necklaces or earrings, Annie?” Ron asks, and she can’t say that she has.

“I never got around to it,” Annie admits. The necklace wouldn’t be so hard, she muses, since it’s just a longer bracelet. But the seashell earrings might be a bit more difficult.

“Give it a go, some day. I bet you’d be good at it,” Ron grins, then gets back to business, gruff as usual. “You want to see the garden?”

Annie smiles. Asks cheerfully. “What are we doing today?”

 

 

She sees Finnick Odair a grand total of once, maybe, in all the four months that she’s returned. He comes and goes on the whims of the Capitol, Mags tells her, when Annie asks. Must be tough to be golden boy of District Four, the heartthrob victor that the Capitol lusts for. 

Annie catches sight of him, one afternoon, while she’s digging into a sundae at Jules’ cafe, when the sky is blue and the sea is glittering, and she can’t be sure, but she _thinks_ she sees him fishing on a white boat.

It’s a pretty, if oddly lonely, picture.

Later, when she remembers this moment, Annie will think that there’s something not quite real about it.

 

 

The first dinner Annie goes to isn’t what she expected.

No one, she thinks, could have prepared her for Muscida Selkirk. Not Coral, in her formerly steadfast belief. Not Ron, with his flagrant irascibility. It turns out, Annie learns, that even without the topic of soulmates; Muscida will annoy Ron simply by breathing. There’s always some grumbling remark Ron has at hand, and sometimes, to his grievance, Muscida will engage in that, just for the pleasure of his company.

She’s relieved that Finnick isn’t at Mags’ dinner.

Especially because apparently the knowledge that they’re soulmates is an open secret, and Muscida Selkirk is obsessed about soulmates.

“I just don’t understand why you two aren’t together,” Muscida says, and Annie can’t help but note that nobody is surprised by this information.

“I have a boyfriend,” Annie points out, steel lining her soul. She’s had conversations like this with Coral before, and never changed her mind. She will not start now. “Whom I love. _That’s_ a pretty good reason.”

“But Finnick is your soulmate,” Muscida stares at her, bemused. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“No, actually, it  _doesn’t_ ,” Annie says, indignant, temper exploding. She’s tried to be civil, but being civil is no longer an option. “I don’t see why it should. Are you saying that once I found my soulmate, everything was going to be _fine?_ Because newsflash, Muscida, I discovered him when I was a fucking tribute, prepared to  _die_. Does that mean that that was fine, then, for both of us? Never mind that the Games were happening, it was _fine_ , because this device said that we matched. Is that it? Is that what it should mean to me? Let me say something, Muscida, and listen good: who I am, right now, is not because of Finnick fucking Odair. I don’t know him, I rarely talked to him in the Games, and I haven’t seen him since returning to District Four, so why should he mean  _anything_ to  _me_?”

If he says ‘because he’s your soulmate’, she’s walking out and never going looking back. Because that is some fucked up priorities.

Whatever Muscida Selkirk’s response is, it gets cut short by Mags’, who is having none of it. 

Annie fumes for the rest of the night.

 

 

 _Interesting_ , Muscida had said, the first time she met him, and she’d not-quite-lied, saying that she was meant to meet her soulmate soon.  _Very interesting._

It’s pretty clear Muscida Selkirk has got some fucked up priorities.

(But he hadn’t asked after that, Annie thinks, after she calms down, much, much later, trying to think about what had happened next, the order of events at the Capitol. He’d left the matter alone, sticking to general pieces of advice and keeping up morale. He hadn’t asked about her soulmate at all.)

 

 

She’s good at holding grudges. That’s something she inherits from her mother. 

No matter how many times Muscida wants to talk and explain himself, Annie will not yield and listen, seething at the mere thought.

 

 

“What if your soulmate had been platonic?” Annie asks, shivering slightly, as Jones traces her skin, traces the scars that used to exist before the Games. He does so lazily, too-big hands sliding under her shirt, and she can’t help but smile, sparks skittering all over her stomach. She’s missed this part too. “And you’d never have to worry about them, because you’d be so happy they’d exist without the expectation of romance.”

“Mm,” Neptune mumbles, pressing kisses to her neck. He likes to listen to her talk, the sounds she makes, the reverberations that pulses at her throat. “That would nice. If District Three had made a device and actually said, here are your choices, is this what you want? Do you want your soulmate to be platonic or romantic or something else entirely?” 

His touch grounds her, tracing her skin where the scars and scabs used to be. She trembles, anticipating, as he kisses the expanse of her ribs, her beating heart, the crease between her brows, and she thinks,  _yes._  

“What about all the soulmates who might never get to find their match, because they chose the wrong option?” Annie says, trying to think, but it’s getting difficult, the more attention he lavishes on her. She doesn’t mind her thoughts dissipating like this, dissipating into laughter as her fingertips familiarize themselves with the curve of his back. She’s always liked this part.

“Who says that a person only has one soulmate?” Jones asks, kissing her dimpled cheek, and she turns her head towards him, placing a chaste kiss on his mouth. He still doesn’t believe in soulmates, but he does like the questioning the idea, exploring different angles and the notches of her spine. “People grow and they change all the time, and we need different people at different parts of our lives. It can’t be as simple as the Capitol wants everyone to believe, right?”

 

 

Love is easy, Coral once told Annie, sharpening her knives and twisting the sunlight just right.

Annie has always had doubts about that. Love is a struggle, love is a storm, love is two people willing to commit through thick and thin, after all the fights, after the calm has happened. Love is two people coming together, even after they’ve been separated, and he has to work at with Old Man Tony to make ends meet, and she still gets nightmares and doesn’t feel like she’s the same person he fell in love with.

“Do you think I’m the same person from two years ago?” Neptune asks, on the brink of falling asleep, but willing himself to stay awake. They should talk in the morning, when both their thoughts are a little less muddled, but Annie wants this conversation now. 

“No,” Annie says, thoughtful, her hair splayed out on the pillow as she turns her head. She thinks, finally, at last, she’s found her way back to him. “No, I don’t think you are.” 

 

 

The point is: she chose him.

The point is: he chose her.

 

 

“Admit it,” Jones teases, one fine morning, and the rising sun sits upon his shoulders, “you missed this part.”

“Of course I admit it. I missed this part most of all,” Annie deadpans, unable to stop herself from smiling, as he showers her neck in feather light kisses. He lowers and continues the trail downwards, kissing her collarbone, her breasts, her stomach. “Keep going.”

“This is okay, right?” Neptune asks, voice full of trepidation. They’ve had to rebuild this from the ground up, start from the basics again, because she couldn’t bear to be that vulnerable, one minute fine with the displays of affection, the next, panicking and regressing and her mind far away, unable to let go of the horror that permanently lurks in her mind.

The first time they had sex was a year before the Games, but it’s taken a long time for Annie to feel comfortable in her skin and reach to this stage.

“Yeah. I want this,” Annie says, grinning, tilting his head with her hands and descending so they meet halfway. Then she shifts her body so she can wrap her legs around his waist, flush against him so there can be no mistake. “I want  _you_ , Jones. Right now.”

“That’s alright then,” Neptune grins, suddenly bashful, and then Annie can’t help but press a kiss to his broad shoulder, and let him feel her smile against his familiar skin. 

“And you?” Annie asks, fairly certain she knows the answer. She whispers into ear, lowering her voice and sounding husky, just to feel his body react. “Do you want me?” 

“What a question,” Neptune Jones laughs breathlessly, “I love you, Cresta.”

She grins sweetly. “Love you too, Jones.”

 

 

As it turns out, she  _does_  get to see Finnick at the next victor’s monthly dinner. She spends the day with Mags, who is spending time with her grandchildren. Finnick is also there, easy smiles and witty words, charming Erin and Scott effortlessly. It’s sweet to watch, but when he sees her, his smile drops.

Five months is a long time.

“Hi,” Finnick says, and Annie doesn’t know why the first thing she does is look at his wrist, curiously without a scar, but it’s an automatic reflex, the only evidence that told them that they were… connected. Soulmates. Gone. It’s the lack of scar that bemuses her most. “I… took it off at the Capitol, so they have their ways of making it seem as if it never happened.” 

“Oh,” Annie says, and thinks about her own scars that are now invisible, thanks to the technology of the Capitol. “Well, I guess that saves your reputation, right?”

He blinks at her, confused, and Annie’s stomach churns, hoping that she hasn’t made the situation worse.

 _Fuck._ Annie forces herself to sound positive. “I mean. Look on the bright side. People can still dream about being the Great Finnick Odair’s soulmate.”

“Right,” Finnick’s mouth twists into something not quite pleasant. He seems much more subdued, up close. “Look, I wanted to say sorry. I panicked. It was shitty of me.”

“Yeah, it was,” Annie says, bluntly, staring right through him. "It was really fucking shitty.”

She doesn’t ask him at what point in the Game he decided to remove the Timer. At what point he decided sever the link. She doesn’t need to know. Because at that point, she had a death wish and was determined to carry it through.

Here’s the thing: when Annie Cresta stared at the blank Timer for the first time, the thought that Finnick Odair panicked had never crossed her mind. When she stared at the dashes, hollow and desperate and devoid of any sense of hope, the only thought possible was that Finnick Odair was dead.

 

 

There was this tribute from District Ten, a few Games ago, who could have been a victor, who started promisingly, efficiently. Even reached the final eight. And then the Timer went blank, they were taken by surprise and their fate was sealed. All that concentration and focus gone, freaking out because something had happened to their soulmate. It didn’t matter which tribute saw the opportunity and took it. All that mattered was that it was the tipping point for that tribute from District Ten, and it cost them their life.

Finnick Odair is not the first person to have acted this way. It’s not even the first time something like that has happened. 

Some tributes take advantage of it. There are plenty of horror stories where the soulmate bond is exploited, because one of them believes in it, and the other is more than happy to play along, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Stripping the Timer away is the trickiest part, having to remove it just before someone else’s canon fires, or before they notice that the functioning Timer on their wrist goes blank. They have until nightfall to maintain the surprise and shock their soulmate with their morbid gambit, gloating at them for their gullibility. 

 

 

“Did you want to be my friend?” Annie asks, later, fizzy drink in hand, as she walks back to the living room, settling on the sofa. There’s still some time left before the others arrive, and but this might be the only chance she gets to speak with him, since Finnick Odair can’t be found in District Four, a ripple always moving out of reach whenever people get too close. “Or was that bullshit too?”

“Anyone ever tell you I’m a shit friend?” Finnick says with a sigh, golden in the dying light. Resignation colours his entire voice, something self-deprecating about it.

“Somehow that never came up whenever anyone talked about the Great Finnick Odair,” Annie says, even though she’s sure that if she asked Librae point blank at any given moment, she’d gain instant confirmation. “Seriously though, I wouldn’t say you were a shit friend. I mean, you did give me a hug and got me to calm down. And you were nice to Teddy. That means a lot.”

She wants to thank him for that one day.

“Yeah, well. He liked me,” Finnick mutters, glancing down, bashful, before he looks up at her, uncertain. “You really want to be friends?”

“The way I see it, we’re neighbours and soulmates and victors, and once a year, we’re going to go the Capitol together and spend some time together,” Annie states, thinking that it sounds reasonable to try and make the best of an awkward situation. They might as well be cordial to each other, amicable if not especially close, unless they want to be like Muscida and Ron, annoyed at each other forever. “So yeah, I think it’s worth a shot.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Finnick says, smiling despite himself, “I guess I have no choice. Hi, I’m Finnick.”

“Hello, Finnick,” Annie says with a smile, “I’m Annie.”

 

 

When it rains, it pours in District Four.

“You’re in a good mood,” Zeke comments, over dinner.

“I feel happy,” Annie says, and it’s not just because of the heavy rain, though she won’t deny that might be part of it. "Like things are finally looking up.”

“That’s my girl,” Sophie says, and Annie finally understands the victory her mother feels.

 

 

Only —

Good things always end. Happiness never lasts forever. 

As the month approaches the Victory Tour, her nightmares come back full force. The Capitol loves their victors as broken shambles who act as if nothing’s wrong. In the right light, the fiercest leer you can give becomes a glassy smile struggling to hold on; Annie learns this, much, much later. 

But she tries to put her brave face on again. Tries smiling at the mirror. She hangs out with Jones and Newt, has long walks with her parents, makes time to relax with Coral and Juniper. She gardens with Ron, and talks about her fears, listens to Mags and her endless source of good advice, and wonders why Librae has suddenly taken such a shine to her of late, especially after she lost her temper with Muscida.

Annie tells herself, despite everything, things are okay.

And then —

A week before the Victor’s Tour, there’s an accident. 

 

 

Neptune Jones is dead.

No explosion, no monsters, no dramatics. Just a good old fashioned sailor’s death, helping Old Man Tony with the last of the fishing supplies.

They find his body washed up on the shore three days later.

 

 

The funeral is a quiet affair.

It takes place during a sun shower, and it’s not fair that Annie can feel the rain on her face while the sun is shining and everything is bright and beautiful and tragic.

 

 

The afternoon before the Victor’s Tour, Annie finds a single white rose placed at Neptune’s grave.

She presses a hand to her face, hiding her trembling mouth.

She thought —

She _thought_ —

Some small, idealistic part of her had trusted the calm before the storm. 

Ron had told her to guard her heart, when he dropped by for the first time. Mags had told her stories of nameless victors who had upset the balance, and suffered for it, a month later, and that had — that had worried Annie, when she asked. Annie had worried about her family, about her friends, about Neptune.

But then time went by. One month, then another. Nothing happened.

Of course they’d be waiting when Annie thought she was finally safe.

The Capitol is always waiting, always watching.

Annie can hear Philomena laughing at her, in the back of her head, louder than she has for a long time. Usually she can ignore it, tune her out, but she’s tired, grief stricken, heartbroken, and it’s _too much_. 

Philomena cackles, vultures circling, closing in on Annie, and the only thing Annie can do is cover her ears and focus on blocking her out.

 

 

“The Capitol isn’t happy with you,” Ron tells Annie, speaking very quietly, “because you weren’t supposed to break the dam. And if they’re not happy, they’ll let you know at the worst time imaginable.”


	9. Druxy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Druxy - Something which looks good on the outside, but is actually rotten inside.

No matter how much you want, you can never forget that the Capitol hates its victors.

Really, there’s not much point to even try _._

 

 

When it gets too much, Finnick takes his boat to the sea, and sits. Breathes. Tries to, at least, passing his hand over his face, and laughs ugly broken sounds that only emerge from his mouth when he feels wholly overwhelmed.

Finnick likes to think that the sound of the waves, how they lap at the white paint and knock the boat back and forth, wave overtaking wave, is enough to hide the noise that he makes. Torn from his throat like some pathetic fish, caught on a hook. That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

Not even here, a glint on the sea green water, is he alone.

 

 

“A week,” Finnick says to Muscida, who is waiting for him on the pier. “That’s classy of them.”

Sometimes it’s Mags that stands on the pier, sometimes it’s Ron or even Librae instead, sometimes it’s a combination of two of them, but usually it’s just Muscida, in his plaid shirts, who stands there with a sad, small smile that isn’t really a smile at all. Finnick’s always hated that smile. It always means  _time to go._  Time for the reaping, time for the Hunger Games, time for meeting the latest victor with their unhappy faces, and meet them face on with his gorgeous grin.

Sometimes, though, they’ll be waiting on the pier just to talk. Nothing to do with the Capitol at all. Sometimes it’ll be because they want to go fishing with him.

After all, Mags tells him, somewhat amused, they’re not his baby sitters. They love him.

(And isn’t a terrifying thought?)

Muscida says nothing, but nods, his face drawn into a grim line. His shoulders are sunken, weighed down by the burden he carries, the sadness of saying too much or nothing at all. That’s always been his way, as loathe as the rest of the victors are to admit.

“How’s she doing?” Finnick says, begrudgingly, reluctantly. There’s still time before he has to say goodbye to the newest member of District Four’s makeshift family.

“As well as can be expected,” Muscida says with a heavy sigh, chest heaving in what feels like slow motion.

“Does it make you happy?” Finnick can’t help but ask, vicious and ungracious, because he’s had a few days to mull over this, he’s had years knowing the importance of soulmates to Muscida.

“No, Finnick, it doesn’t,” Muscida snaps, jaw clenched, “I wouldn’t wish that on _anyone._ ”

“Yet you believe that Annie and I are going to fall in love _because_ we are soulmates?” Finnick spits out, absently wondering if he’s listened to the song of the sea for too long, muddling his thoughts, salt licking his palms, catching sunlight. “Only problem is, she’s in love with someone else. What did you think was going to happen? That they’d break up, just like that?”

“I don’t know, Finnick! Maybe!”

“Oh, okay. _Maybe,_ ” Finnick laughs, cruel and mocking. “Did you forget the part where she fucking tells Flickerman that her _true love_ is waiting for her back home? Did you forget that when Annie puts her mind to something, there’s no stopping her? Did you forget that she’s trying to piece herself after surviving the Games, and that _maybe_ what’s best for her isn’t her fucking deadbeat soulmate, but in fact people who _know_ her and love her far longer than I ever have?”

“Maybe,” Muscida sighs, closing his eyes. “Shit.”

 _“_ Shit, he says,” Finnick glowers, echoing derisively. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“You’re not a deadbeat, Finn,” Muscida says, changing tack, and Finnick huffs. “Don’t think of yourself like that.”

Of course Muscida would choose to focus on that, to go on a tangent before returning to the subject at hand.

“I gave up on her,” Finnick states, his voice low and thick. “I thought she was going to die, and I couldn’t — I couldn’t deal with it.”

He will never forgive himself.

“It’s the Hunger Games,” Muscida says, sombre, “Finn, you know what it’s like. You did what you thought was best.”

“I shouldn’t have done it,” Finnick murmurs, ignoring him.

“But you did,” Muscida points out, and it stings. “So what? She won, and you’ve found your soulmate.”

“Are you going to tell me there’s a happy ending to be found?” Finnick says, terse. “That it’ll be easy, just like that? After everything that I’ve… after everything’s that happened?”

“Eventually, yes,” Muscida admits, and Finnick can’t help but stare at him in disbelief. “You’ll get a happy ending. No, Finn, it probably won’t be easy, and it probably won’t be for a long time, but you’ll get there. You and Annie, you’ll find each other. I’m sure of it.”

Finnick scoffs.

“It doesn’t mean that I wanted her boyfriend to die,” Muscida says, earnest. Insistent. Anguished.

“I know,” Finnick says, mostly to comfort him.

It’s true, though, as much as Muscida likes to prattle on about the inevitably of soulmates, he’s not one to take matters into his own hands, or be driven to such extremes. Instead, he has the outlook that time will forge its own path, trusting that the bond of the soulmate will inevitably turn romantic. He doesn’t even take offence to people who date and fall in love with someone who isn’t their soulmate, but it bemuses him sometimes. He understands it to an extent, if a person hasn’t got a Timer, or if it’s prior to the countdown’s end, but after the numbers reach zero, that’s when Muscida reaches his limit and cannot comprehend why.

“I didn’t either,” Finnick adds, an afterthought.

“I know you didn’t,” Muscida says, gently. He sighs before he speaks again. “Look, I know what I sound like. A fool who cares only about soulmates and nothing else. But you know me, Finnick, I know there’s more to life than soulmates. I do, even if I don’t act like it most of the time. I want you to be happy. I want Annie to be happy. And, I think you two would be happiest together, no matter how much time it takes. At least if you gave each other a chance.”

“Yeah,” Finnick breathes, resentful, lowering his eyes, trying to convince himself that he is not afraid. “Maybe.”

It’s just —

Finnick doesn’t know if it’s too late for him. If he missed his chance, somewhere along the way.

“What happened to you?” Muscida asks carefully, noticing his reticence, the self-loathing and unease crawling under his skin, as Finnick shifts away from him. Discomfort settles in the tightness of his chest. “You weren’t always like this. Why did you stop believing in soulmates?”

The thing about Muscida is that he’s far more likeable before you’ve met your soulmate.

It’s not that Muscida doesn’t know how to leave topics alone, he barely mentions Aemelia to Ron, nor does he spend much time convincing Librae to try and make things work with her soulmate either. He can’t refrain from making the odd comment, though, can’t stop himself being curious about the new tributes’ soulmates on the train when all the victors have to bear witness and get ticked off because of it. Finnick’s never lost his temper with Muscida when he talks about soulmates, the only other victor apart from Mags, and sure, sometimes he’s frustrated by Muscida’s encouragement and endless supply of enthusiasm regarding soulmates, but Finnick’s never had it in him to lash out.

If Finnick is being honest with himself, as aggravating pedantic as Muscida can be, Finnick still likes him. He’s part of the makeshift family of District Four victors, and Finnick can never hate Muscida completely when Muscida has been there for him.

“I…” Finnick closes his eyes. Sighs.

Muscida knows why. He has to. But perhaps it’s like this: it’s simply not enough for him to understand why anyone would stop believing in the idea that a soulmate means true love, their one and only, the person just for them.

“I don’t know, Muscida. I guess — I guess it just happened without me noticing,” Finnick exhales, hands behind his neck. “And when I finally did, it was too late.”

He hasn’t been able to talk to anyone about this. Not even to Maria.

He could tell his aunt that he found his soulmate, and show her his unscarred wrist, but he couldn’t confide in her with these feelings that have been brewing inside him for so, so long.

He knows that she would listen to him, give him some good advice, a hug. But it’s different when you never even had the chance to meet your soulmate. At least, it’s always seemed that way to Finnick.

Maybe he’d be better off talking to Librae, but here he is, talking to Muscida, and his curious myriad of thoughts.

“I didn’t ever expect that it would happen the way it has. I didn’t ever think that I’d meet my soulmate during the Games, or that Annie had never wanted to know her soulmate,” Finnick admits, heart twisting in shame. If he could only take it back. “You always made it sound so… _easy._ Smooth sailing from day one. And I believed you, I really did, Muscida. And then, somewhere along the way, I just stopped. I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“I wanted to give you hope,” Muscida says, painstakingly sincere. “I wanted to help you, Finn, to make you look forward to make you look forward to the day you found your soulmate. When I met Julian, it was at precisely the right time. I wanted that for you.”

“If only we were all that lucky,” Finnick says, bitterly, and it’s not like he doesn’t understand.

The fact is, Muscida’s unyielding stance, his constant optimism on soulmates has helped Finnick multiple times. At his most despairing. At his most broken. When he lived in the strangely blissful and suffocating ignorance, he could cling to the fantasy and let it change to suit his needs and be utterly selfish and have it catered to him completely. He could imagine countless scenarios, and no matter what Librae had said, Finnick could make his ideal soulmate align with him perfectly.

And then Librae met her soulmate, and something shattered.

Her imagination became crueller. He believed a little less.

(By the time Finnick met Annie, his actual soulmate, Finnick had crossed the threshold of giving up long ago.)

It’s not fair, because Muscida waited _years_ , far longer than Finnick had when he met his soulmate.

“If only,” Muscida agrees, sadly. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll look back one day and think that it was right time all along.”

Finnick bares his teeth, feral and sharp. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Finn,” Muscida says, letting his shoulder drop. He sounds — disappointed, possibly.

“Did you love Julian right away?” Finnick asks, bluntly, not wanting to talk about his own soulmate anymore. He’s spent too much time hanging out with Librae recently, the bitterness that marks him now, and he can’t wipe it away as easily as he used to. He’s asked this question before, when he was younger and more sincere, more hopeful, more willing to believe.

Now, it’s an admonishment, a reproach, a plea to talk about something else.

“No,” Muscida answers, eventually, “but I liked him instantly, I knew there was something about him, and most days, I think that’s close enough.”

 

 

When it comes down to it, what Muscida likes about it is exactly what Annie loathes about it. Muscida likes that there is no choice, accepting the process of turning like to love, and falling head over heels, without a flicker of doubt. To him, it’s a natural expectation, like breathing, something necessary, something that cannot be contained, something that cannot be controlled.

Muscida doesn’t have to worry about making a mistake, about regrets when he falls in love with the person he has, because the decision is made for him, and it’s one less problem to think about.

Muscida Selkirk is happy with the person fate chose for him, and all the victors of District Four begrudge him for it.

 

 

“How is Julian these days?” Finnick asks, as they set off to the Victors’ Village. It’s been so long since he’s asked about Muscida’s husband.

“He’s doing great,” Muscida cheerfully informs him. “Business has never been better, he tells me.”

“I should drop by his shop sometime,” Finnick says, stomach rumbling. “See him in his element.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Muscida grins, pleased.

“He better offer something on the house,” Finnick grins back, willing to push his luck if it means he gets to charming.

Muscida laughs, and suddenly the breeze feels more welcoming.

 

 

“Finnick!” Victoria beams, the air thick with the scent of jasmine, a blush of blue on her cheeks. “These six months have gone too slowly.”

Her prep team trot behind her, their eyes appreciative of the view in District Four. They like the hues of the sea and have decided to paint themselves accordingly, luminous to all who fix their gaze on them and stare. Claribel’s cheeks are glittering.

Theo, prim and proper as always, gives a tight smile and says little else but nod. There’s an air of impatience about him, and he ignores the gaze of the lovelorn Bubo. It’s a subtle reminder that though Annie may have won the Seventieth Hunger Games, she is not a popular victor. Theo wants to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“And where is the lovely Annie Cresta?” Victoria asks, starry eyed and enchanted by the allure of the sea once more. There are questions unsaid, ugly questions that the Capitol are sure to frown upon, the bitter taste of a victor that is less than desired, and not for the first time, Finnick wonders, how much does Victoria truly care.

He shrugs, half turning. “Selkirk?”

“Waiting for you,” Muscida says, without a hint of irony.

Muscida is talking to Victoria, of course, but then words were never Muscida’s talent, and Finnick ignores the double meaning, the sting, preferring to glower and grimace. Muscida didn’t win his Hunger Games by speaking. Finnick’s watched it.

In fact, Muscida hardly spoke at all.

 

 

Sadness drapes over her shoulders, bedraggled hair curved over the nape of her neck like a noose. Annie stands still, a sea ghost trying to taste the salt breeze.

“Annie,” Victoria says with a smile, embracing her with flourished hands, while Annie remains still, waiting for the moment to pass, eerily still. “Just you wait, I am going to make you breath-taking.” 

Annie steps back, a careful blankness over her face, and nods. When she speaks, it feels like she hasn’t used words in a very long time. “Come in, Victoria.”

 

 

They cut her hair again.

Neaten it by giving it shape and making her seem less tangled. She seems polished, artificial again. Victoria makes her look less tired, the dark smudges under Annie’s eyes gone. They doll her up and make her look like the girl before the Games, who wore a stunning red dress and shared her enthusiasm over Jacuzzis.

It still cannot erase the dead eyed apathy that emulates from her.

He must have looked like that at first, too.

 

 

(Actually, Finnick knows that he  _did_  look like that. The empty glazed eyes and the tiredness that weighs her down, anchors sinking into the sea, sinking into the sand, sinking fathoms below even after that.

It’s a look he recognises very well.

He remembers that tiredness, feels it every day when he’s not busying himself or pretending otherwise, and tries to mask the strain of a smile with an even brighter thought.

It’s why he stayed away.

No one likes that reminder, the rawness of the games, and the grief it consumes, the anger that boils beneath the surface, and the expectant horror it contains when the realization occurs that you have to return to it through a different lens. Someone else’s perspective to keep the situation fresh.

All the while singing the praises of the Capitol.)

 

 

Except Finnick is wrong.

The prep team _don’t_ try to make Annie look like the girl from before. Finnick doesn’t know why he thought that was the case at all, when he takes a second glance, a closer inspection at Claribel’s and Bubo’s and Victoria’s work.

Before, in the games, they gave her radiant complimentary colours.

Winter changes that.

They dress her in white with a sea blue tinge, waves rippling in the fabric. Like she’s on the edge of water, sea foam about to disintegrate into the crash of an iceberg. She is losing herself to sorrow and anger, simmering underneath her quiet demeanour.

They give Annie lilac lipstick. Victoria’s touch, most likely, though instead of the dark purple that she tends to favour, Victoria chooses a softer palette.

It’s all very telling, how her mouth and her sea green eyes stand out against her pale alabaster skin. Deliberately delicate.

“How do I look?” Annie asks, soft, when the silence stretches, and all the victors have gathered in her living room.

 _Built to break,_ Finnick thinks, while the other victors say nicer, complimentary things, Annie’s parents protectively beside her. Librae shrugs, nudging Finnick, some similar thought running through her mind, judging by her expression of unhappiness.

 

 

(”Like a ghost,” Finnick tells Annie later, when there is seagulls and a cloudless sky, a strawberry sundae in her hands, and her lovely mouth twists into a smile. “I didn’t even notice the scales until much later.”

It starts slowly, a few fish scales that shone on the edge of her shoulder in District Twelve, which slowly spreads until the entire dress is made of scales by the time she reaches the District Four, a mermaid returning to the only place she can truly belong.

“Somehow,” Annie says, humming, a low buzz that Finnick can only hear if he closes his eyes and listens. “I think that was the point.”)

 

 

Theo makes his presence known, footsteps clacking on the pavement. He folds his arms and announces in his curt manner an impatient statement. “Time to go.”

It’s been decided beforehand. Ron and Librae are going with Annie on the tour. Two mentors to a Victory Tour, two mentors to keep the victor in check, when they’re spitting furious or grief stricken, drunk or sober. They’re more important here than they ever were in the Games. Six months of support means more than those three weeks of hell.

The farewells happen, touching, of course. Annie hugs her family first and last, the rest of the victors hugged in between.

Her smile is horrible and bright, shark’s teeth searching for blood in the water, and Finnick can only imagine that his wide smirk is equally as monstrous.

“See you at the finish line,” Finnick murmurs, as Annie stiffens in his arms before she draws back.

There’s a stab of self-loathing as she stares right through him, and Finnick does his best to ignore that particular emotion.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, he can push through it and act as if he’s said something wickedly delightful. All he needs now is a sugar cube.

It’s all a show, after all. It’s what everyone has always wanted from him.

 

 

He can’t help but wonder, as the train departs, steadily gaining traction away from the station, if Annie’s parents know that he’s their daughter’s soulmate. If they care as little as Annie about the situation.

“Would you like to watch the tour with us?” Mags asks, when the train is no longer in sight.

“Yes,” Sophie Cresta says, her fingers linked with her husband. She nods, and smiles and it seems like a rare thing, her smile. “That would be most kind.”

“Thank you,” Zeke Cresta says, before bursting into tears.

 

 

He’s tired when he gets home. He feels so fucking exhausted the minute he opens the door and steps through the threshold. When the door slams shut behind him, the weight on his shoulders becomes too much. The energy of a smile dissipates, and it’s all he can do to not collapse on the nearest sofa.

“How’d it go?” Maria calls, her voice a beacon, and Finnick sighs. It’s not like his aunt wasn’t watching the televised events anyway.

“As well as it could be,” Finnick mutters, rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. In a louder voice, he says, “I don’t know. Hard to say.”

“Poor girl,” Maria sighs, as Finnick sits down beside her. “How are Zeke and Sophie coping?”

“Not much better,” Finnick shrugs, leaning into his aunt’s arms. They stay there in silence, and like the tide takes away sandcastles, gradually the tiredness ebbs away. Finnick doesn’t say anything until he feels ready to speak, and Maria, as always, is remarkably patient with him. “Mags has invited them over, so they don’t have to go through alone.”

“That’s good. They’re good folk,” Maria hums, soothingly, rubbing his shoulder. “And what about you?”

“Me? Feeling peachy keen,” Finnick mumbles against her shoulder. He hears his aunt huff, saying nothing, saying his name and making it sound as if she’s said  _liar._  Finnick lets the silence suspend for a moment longer, her fingers carded in his curls. “’m sorry, I’m… okay, just tired.”

His mind is going in circles, the memories of his own Victory Tour fresh in his mind, like it was yesterday instead of five years ago.

 

 

He used to find it impossible to leave the new house until he tied something into a knot. These days, it’s not so bad, but it’s a habit he can’t quit. When he’s stressed or upset, he spends countless hours tying and retying the same knot. It’s never the same when he pulls at the edge of his bracelets and  _twists_ , so his wrists hurt, so he knows that the pain is real. When he wakes up, he counts to ten, again and again. It has to be a ten which he gets up on, or he starts counting again. Most days he doesn’t have to count aloud, but when the nightmares are too vivid and he wakes up in cold sweat, then he has to hear the sound of his voice to anchor himself to reality, in the soft sheets of his bed.

 

 

Finnick spends the day playing boules with Mags’ grandchildren. When Erin grows tired of that, they play hide and seek, always finding Scottie first, much to Finnick’s amusement.

Aunt Maria invites Zeke and Sophie Cresta over to dinner. They don’t talk about soulmates.

 

 

The next day, they gather around Mag’s living room. It’s a little cramped, what with all the victors and their families: the Crestas, Julian, Maria and the entirety of Mags’ spawn, all in one room. But they face it together, because that’s what the victors of District Four do: they support each other.

 

 

No one likes District Twelve. Mags keeps telling him that Haymitch is a good man, after you’ve acclimatized to his abrasiveness and dispassion. Finnick’s never been quite so sure. He knows that Haymitch has moments of biting insight, handing alcohol under the table during dinner.

 _Drink up, kid,_ Haymitch had said,  _it’s only going to get worse from here._

He’d turned fifteen by then, hated the taste and ended up spluttering. But he forced himself to drink it, figuring it was a kindness as much as anything was, considering it was Haymitch Abernathy.

Its Theo’s words that Finnick hears come out from Annie’s mouth as she makes her speech. The curtness of it, short but simple, official crap that Theo spouts from time to time, give it away. Annie herself sounds monotone, hand gripping the paper too hard, shaking, as she forces the words to come out in short, sudden bursts.

The weather in District Twelve is awful, raining from start to finish.

 

 

“One down, eleven to go,” Mags says, after the first day is over. “It’s a good start, Sophie. She’s doing well, Zeke.”

Nobody mentions how listless Annie looked as she stood on the stage and accepted flowers.

 

 

“What do you have that’s on the house?” Finnick asks Jules with a boyish smile.

“Absolutely nothing that interests you, Finnick,” Jules says, pushing his glasses up his nose. But he’s smiling. “Muscida mentioned you might drop in.”

“To _help_. He said that business is failing and could use a moral boost. He was very passionate and moving. An inspiring speech, really. And do you know who the first person he was to turn to? Me. The Great Finnick Odair,” Finnick says, entirely unable to keep a straight face by the end of it, wearing a shit eating grin that he so loves to don.

“So here you are, Finnick Odair, saviour of Jules’ café,” He’s got a very good poker face, it’s hard to say whether Jules believes him or not. Judging by the indulgent smile, unable to repress itself, that’s a no. “And what do you suggest I do next?”

“Well, Jules, the first thing you should do is offer me a free drink,” Finnick beams, beatific. 

“Lemonade it is,” Jules decides, after a moment, and then laughs at his expression, dark hair streaked with thin lines of grey. He lifts an eyebrow. “No? Perhaps some orange juice instead?”

 

 

Muscida has always had a soft spot for District Eleven.

“It’s pretty,” Muscida explains to Sophie. “Look at the meadows beneath the sky. It’s a different kind of green from the ocean water. It astounds me every time.”

Finnick feels like he would suffocate in District Eleven. He’d be alright if he lived on the outskirts, where the sea was in sight, like District Twelve. But any more in land, and the grass would begin to smell too fresh and lack the sea salt breeze that he sorely needs. If he spent any longer than a day, he’d start seeing Sarah at every corner, blood spraying from her heart as her last words became a garbled mess.

“Chaff is very amiable,” Mags says with a smile, “A very good dancer too.”

It was Mayor Rugosa’s idea that the victors plant seeds when they arrive at this District. They pick at random, seeds for flowers, peonies, roses, daffodils, and bury them in a flowerpot. It’s become a tradition, to wait for the flowers to bloom, and then six months later, at the next Hunger Games, Chaff or Seeder hand over the pressed flowers in an ornate scrapbook. A sign of good will.

They watch in silence as Annie picks out two. Fuchsias and hibiscus.

 

 

“Cows,” Finnick rolls his eyes at Mags and Maria. “There’s going to be a montage about the cows.”

“Wow, you say that like that doesn’t happen every year the Victory Tour reaches District Ten.” Maria says, dryly, and Mags chuckles. 

“Well, sure. It’s one thing to see them on the screen. It’s another thing to see them in person,” Finnick says, hands flippant and flying in the air. “Cows are _weird.”_

“Don’t forget the sheep,” Mags reminds him, and Finnick has to concede that it is a good point.

Librae is close friends with Natalia, Finnick remembers. When Librae’s not with Finnick in the Capitol, she’s often with District Ten’s victor. They have things in common, siblings gone before them, masking affection as their vitriol, and ripping their Timers off when they disliked the outcome. Natalia is a few years older than Librae, but that didn’t stop them from being quick friends.

 

 

There’s a montage about the cows.

Once, every so often, a random sheep will appear, grazing in its muddy field.

It’s fucking weird.

 

 

District Nine is full of fumes and the taste of smoke. Ron always liked that place. Not just because of their shit luck either. Samson, the oldest victor, always gives the biggest hugs, lifting the victors up from their feet and spinning them around. It’s how he says hello, he admits with a bashful smile, never able to stop himself. He has to spin.

“Just look at her,” Sophie mumbles to Zeke, and uncomfortably, Finnick tries not to listen, “Our brave girl.”

There’s a pallid blue sheen on Annie’s skin, as she recites Theo’s words like an automaton. The clothes she wears make her look thin and withdrawn, fish scales sprawled over her sleeves. She stands so still that the smoke threatens to swallow her whole.

And though there’s nothing to suggest she’s mad, like any of the victors who emerge from the games, there is this sensation prickling at the back of his neck that almost insinuates that there’s  _something_  strange about Annie Cresta.

 

 

“Sun sure looks nice today,” Muscida says, fitting a cap on his head, which Finnick suspects doesn’t quite fit him at all. “How about a fishing competition?”

 

 

District Eight is the calm before the storm.

As predicted by Mags, Annie stays by Woof and Cecilia’s side as they stroll through the town.

Woof has a knack for jokes, and it’s good to see Ron looking relaxed in the background, whenever the camera cuts away to his reactions.

The mayor gives Annie a gift, an embroidered scarf with her name sewn in with soft colours. It’s tailored to the theme of District Four, fishes swimming from one end to the other. Finnick is not entirely certain the fish on the scarf exist, but they certainly look impressive.

 

 

“Ron and Librae are doing their very best to make sure she gets through this,” Finnick says, awkwardly, before District Seven is reached. It’s no surprise to anyone that District Seven and Six are going to have a toll on Annie, and Finnick just wants Annie’s parents to remember that. 

“I understand,” Sophie Cresta nods, shoulders sharp and full of graceful poise. “Annie is far stronger than she knows. I want to tell her that I’m so proud of her.”

He feels like he can breathe a little easier now. He can tell Annie that when they meet again.

“Okay.”

 

 

“I’m sorry,” Annie says, eyes shining, and it’s such a contrast to Theo’s carefully chosen rhetoric. “I didn’t know your son, but still I… I had a choice to make. And I chose to come back.”

Blight hands Annie an axe. It’s tradition for the victor to throw an axe into a target practice board. All tributes from District Seven do this, before they leave.

Annie takes a deep breath, and throws, hitting bulls-eye.

“Annie used an axe to impress the judges,” Mags informs Zeke and Sophie Cresta, startling Finnick, who had forgotten that detail. “Said that she used it just enough to show that she was a capable weapons user.”

 

 

In District Six, it’s clear that Annie hasn’t slept at all. District Seven, her last kill, juxtaposed with District Six, her first. Shit luck.

She looks like a citizen from District Six, pale and withdrawn, the shadows under her eyes revealing how absolutely miserable she is.

Kat loops her hand with Annie’s, smiles at the fish scales, trying to follow the shimmer with her fingertips, skittering down Annie’s arms, like sparks rushing across water.

“I…” Annie begins, then stops. Her mouth opens and closes wordlessly, as she tries to form words under the fallen tributes’ watchful gaze, hateful. Never getting the chance to prove their mettle. So young, inevitably doomed. “I’m sorry.”

She never finishes her speech, burrowing into a small ball, pressing her hands to her ears. It’s too quiet to say, but it seems like she’s whispering to herself, eyes squeezed shut.

Sydney places his hand on her shoulder, tentative.

 

 

“Halfway there,” Maria says, resting her face in her hands. It’s Finnick’s turn to cook, and she’s supervising to make sure he doesn’t make it inedible. “That’s something, at least.”

“I think, no matter what, she’ll still be seen as a mad victor,” Finnick says, frowning. She’s hardly the first, but it still stings that the Capitol, that the other Districts, will see her as something she’s not.

Then again, isn’t that always the case with the victors?

“Maybe that’s a blessing in disguise,” Maria says, and Finnick wishes he could believe her.

 

 

In Districts Five and Three Annie is chafing under pressure. There’s a dangerous, volatile energy that surrounds her, eerily reminiscent of how she was after the Games, interviewed by Caesar. There’s a spark of danger brimming beneath the surface, as she stares at the screen, her gaze never ending.

Annie recites Theo’s speeches emotionlessly, and witnessing her now, with the oncoming winter, it’s a trick of the light, how easily the metallic fish scales shine and turn to ice instead, creeping over her and making Annie appear even more brittle.

 

 

“Think Wiress has introduced Annie to that game she likes?” Finnick asks Mags, burying his head in his arms and leans on the island counter. That stupid game, Finnick thinks sourly, recalling a nine by nine layout where some numbers are filled in and the rest have to be guessed. There’s a pattern to it, and Finnick wonders how Annie will fair.

“Probably,” Mags hums, and then looks at him curiously, “Did you ever finish the one she gave you?”

“No,” Finnick huffs. It’s _hard_ , dammit. If he puts his mind to it, he can sometimes get one or two numbers, but then sooner or later, he discovers he’s made a mistake and has to start again. 

He’d cheat like Librae if he could. Librae, who tends to scribble in numbers that fit the box, but don’t add up in horizontal or vertical lines. She doesn’t give a damn, and he admires that about her.

 

 

District Two steadies her, somehow. There’s a practiced toughness in her face, and she squares her shoulders as she greets the District Two victors, her fallen allies. There’s something remarkably reminiscent and similar to Librae’s mannerisms.

District Two recognize warriors. They don’t like her because she’s won, but they respect her because she formed an alliance with Lorenzo and Juno. They tolerate her because she didn’t play a hand in their death.

“Lorenzo always had something to say. It was a quality I deeply respected, I enjoyed his opinions and insight,” Annie says, stone faced, as she stares at the families. “Juno was… as different from him as night from day. She had her own unique perspective on the situation, always to the point, but I appreciated how efficient and methodical she was. I will always be grateful that in the brief time I knew them, we were allies.”

 

 

District One is immediately after District Two. There’s no day in between, and Finnick spends the night until the early hours tying and retying the knot, counting to ten with a choked throat; until he wakes up and can’t remember falling asleep, Maria knocking on the door, secrets unravelled on the floor.

 

 

Cashmere and Gloss are there to greet Annie in District One, and are there to send her off. Finnick wonders if they pity her, because Annie is his soulmate, and he essentially left her to the Mutts.

Silks, last year’s victor, is nowhere in sight — but then again, a conversation between isn’t a necessity, but a comfort, he supposes is a good word as any, to know that the next year, you will be better, thicker-skinned, untouchable. In all likelihood, they’ll meet at next year’s Hunger Games.

“Augustus was strong; I didn’t know him to well, but Philomena —” Annie pauses, free hand pushing her hair behind her ear, lingering curled around her neck. “It was me or her, and I — I just couldn’t let it be her.”

She does not ask for their forgiveness, instead she looks away.

 

 

Maria finds him in the morning, out by the dock, and she waits in the harbour, arms crossed. The wind is cold.

“I hate this part,” Finnick admits. He might as well be saying  _I don’t want to go._

His aunt looks like she wants to say a million things, but somehow never can. Instead, she settles with: “I know.”

“But a lover calls,” Finnick twists his face into a smile, razor sharp and just as lethal. It feels like he’s twirling the trident the sponsors gave him in his hands and waiting to skewer some fish. He shapes his aunt’s rage and twists it into something glamorous. “And how can I possibly resist?”

Usually, Mags and Muscida and Ron and Librae are the ones waiting for him on the pier when it’s time. Time for the reaping, time for the Hunger Games, time for meeting the latest victor who has arrived at their district. Finnick meet them all face on with a gorgeous grin.

But it’s his Aunt Maria who waits for him on the pier when a client calls, and pretends that he isn’t shaking before he finds the strength to move his legs and let go of her. He tries desperately, pathetically, to believe her when she says that his parents are proud of him, that she is so proud of him. That he is loved.

 

 

 _Love_ , Finnick thinks cynically, slumped across the seat in the train; he doesn’t even know what that _means_.

His parents died one after the other: his mother breathing her last breath as he breathed his first; his father drank himself to death soon after, his entire world gone.

What kind of love was that? The soulmate kind?

Finnick has tried to look at their wrists in photos, but was unable to tell, the images too grainy. He’s asked Maria too, but she’s forgotten, shrugged, saying, _maybe, maybe._

He sleeps most of his way to the Capitol, hoping that he’ll wake up on the way back to District Four.

It’s not much of a consolation to know that he’s going to miss the interview.

 

 

It is, after all, just business, laden with the fraught illusion of pleasure.

 

 

He twists his mouth into a grin, wild and feckless, twisting his face into something a little more enticing, a little more wanton, and each time he does, he carves the words  _liar, dirty, used_  deeper into his skin.

“Finnick,” Annie says, the stench of roses clinging to her, cloying, nauseating, poisonous. She looks shaken, the way all victors do after their conversation with Snow. She looks beautiful, the metal fish scale dress complete at last. “What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t I say?” Finnick leers, cold and cruel and effortlessly beautiful. He’s swimming in a sea of strangers, pretending that he’s swimming instead of treading water, pretending that he’s treading water instead of drowning. He’s cracking up, barely able to recognize her when the scent of roses is overwhelming. “I’m meeting you at the finish line.”

“You’re full of shit,” Librae says eyes narrowed, appearing from nowhere. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Missed you too,” Finnick giggles, and he wants to go back into his room and spray more perfume to erase the stench, he wants to spray more perfume until his nostrils burn and his head is buzzing with the pungent scent, and then scrub his skin raw with hot water. Spend an eternity in the Jacuzzi.

“Oh, fuck no,” Librae says, anguish shading her voice as she says his name, the realization clicking. It doesn’t matter: she steps protectively in front of Annie. 

Isn’t it wonderful that Annie’s joined the club? Victors care for victors, until they can’t.

He sides his gaze to a particular client, one that likes to bite and scratch and leave marks that last for days on end. He smiles again, directed for his attention.

“See you tomorrow,” Finnick says, kissing them both on the cheek, feeling cheap, feeling fake, feeling like he’s spinning out of control, and only Librae’s murderous glare is keeping him intact, instead of worry that can never see the light of day.

The cameras flash, and Finnick saunters away.

Smile. Somebody has to keep up appearances. At least for a while longer.

 

 

 _I’m the Great Finnick Odair._  Finnick tells himself at night, in the still hours of morning when he wakes up and his body is sore. He counts to ten and fills his mind with pretty little lies as he tries to suppress his anxiety. It’s getting worse, and he’s doesn’t know how many lies he can turn into knots to bend into his hands. The rope he twists turns to thorns and his palms are bleeding.

_The Capitol loves me._

_The Capitol loves me._  He tries to breathe and swallow the lie while the lights are off and he is still and growing cold.  _The Capitol loves me._

He doesn’t know how else to cope.


	10. Baisemain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baisemain - A kiss on the hand.

“Annie Cresta,” President Snow says, softly, slowly, the sickening aroma of roses invading Annie’s senses as she waits for him to finish; her nails curled deep into the meat of her hands, trying to resist the impulse to scratch her skin. It is dangerous to think otherwise. He stares at her, considering, and continues. “What shall I make of you?”

She holds her breath and counts to three inside her head. She sets her jaw, biting her cheek, determined not to speak until necessary.

“Certainly, I can see that you are a resourceful and intelligent young woman, let’s not pretend otherwise,” Snow says, eventually, his voice neutral. “Given time, the Capitol could see that. They could learn to love you.”

 _Who wouldn’t want that?_  Annie refrains from speaking, lowering her eyes, bowing her head instead, a brief respite so that a less suspecting person might mistake it for shyness, awe. Caesar Flickerman certainly would, interpreting it to her favour.

Silence is better.

“Not to mention the mystery concerning your soulmate, now that  _was_ some clever thinking,” Snow says, crisp, curt, speaking only when their eyes meet so she can see what he leaves unsaid. “Very clever thinking, Miss Cresta. I’m impressed, and I don’t admit that lightly. How thoughtful of you to leave Finnick Odair’s name out of it.”

( _Of course they know_ , Annie lets herself think, afterwards, making her way down to the party, legs shaking as she stumbles down the stairs, taking care to tread lightly, her mind sieving through everything, trying to recall everything that was implied.  _Of course they do._ )

“I wouldn’t want to harm his reputation,” she says, cynically, unable to stop herself from opening her mouth, slighted by the notion that she has  _impressed_  President Snow.

She had something like that, the first time she met Finnick, hadn’t she?

“Perhaps the Capitol would have found it romantic. The mad victor from District Four is revealed to be Finnick Odair’s soulmate,” Snow smiles, eyes cold, lips bright, teeth white. There’s something so bare and scathing about the way he regards her in that long, lasting second, vanishing in the blink of an eye, the possibility. “They have found each other at last. So of course, they must be in love.” 

And then what?

“Indeed, Miss Cresta,” President Snow nods, and she realizes too late that she’d spoken aloud _._ “What of Finnick Odair’s lovers? Forgotten, I imagine, since the people of the Capitol would hardly want to break apart such a _destined_ couple. It is likely that they would have rooted for these two soulmates to be reunited and be victors together.”

It would have been so much easier, had she died in the Games, Annie can’t help but think. What if she had? What if she had revealed that her soulmate was Finnick Odair and died? It would have been another layer of performance that Finnick Odair could have added to his glittering, golden skin, so tragic and pitying.

Annie inhales sharply. Snow makes no indication that he heard her, continuing with the hypothetical situation.

“The Capitol does love a happy ending. A shame, perhaps, but so be it,” Snow shrugs, dismissive. Luridly uninterested in the scenario. “Sooner or later, there would have been another victor as attractive as Finnick Odair. Desired them so much that Finnick Odair could be replaced.”

_He makes it sound as if…_

Annie doesn’t let herself finish that thought. Dangerous waters, and Snow is watching, waiting for her to react.

More than ever, the Timer on her wrist feels like a scab, the temptation to tear it from her wrist growing in spiked increments, flushed with anger. She forces herself to stay still.

“Say you revealed your soulmate’s identity tonight, who would believe the mad victor now?” Snow asks, genteel; his voice ever so pleasant. She wants to drag her nails over her arm, irritate her skin that red raw marks would mark her skin and she would bleed. “I’m waiting, Miss Cresta.”

“No one,” Annie replies, mechanical.

“Correct. Given time, perhaps they might. But let’s return to the past, shall we? You decided to not reveal your soulmate. You chose to differentiate between true love and a soulmate, and in doing so, was perceived as mad as a result,” President Snow says, his words cordial, verging on clinical. Yet, it’s impossible to disregard the foreboding undercurrent. The sharp coldness in his eyes. “What’s done is done. This is the outcome of your decision. And yet, it puts you in a rather remarkable predicament.”

She says nothing, swallowing her words. There’s nothing to be said, won, gained by being provoked. 

There’s a party going on, below, and most of them are oblivious to how close Annie is from —

“Now, my advisors believe that you should issue a statement. To say that you have reconsidered in these past few months, and realized that it was your grief for your fallen friend that clouded your mind. My advisors believe that in doing so, you might prevent a rebellion,” Snow pauses, peering at her carefully, and Annie swallows, her throat parched. “I disagreed. I said to them, it’s one thing to commit an act of defiance and inspire rebellion, it’s quite another to state a harmless opinion concerning soulmates. To wear a Timer is a choice, not mandatory in most circumstances. And you, Miss Cresta, made it quite clear, that you have your true love, waiting for you back home.”

There’s a knowing look in his expression, and Annie’s stomach curdles. She hates him more than she ever has before, the white rose placed neatly in front of her mind, on Jones’ tombstone, on Snow’s desk, and Annie blinks rapidly, determined not to break.

She will not break.

“Yes. That he is,” Annie says, soft but steeled. “I was merely voicing my opinion. I meant no harm by it, President Snow.”

“I thought as much. I should like to return you to him,” President Snow says simply, his poisonous veneer cracking into a smile. “You have been so commendable and full of grace during this tour, that I think I shouldn’t keep you from enjoying your party any longer.”

She stiffens her shoulders, her back ramrod straight, sensing an impending dismissal.

“After that, I imagine your parents would be welcome sight.”

“Yes,” Annie agrees, forcing herself to speak, quietly, firmly. “They would be, President Snow.”

“I thought so. In that case, there’s no need to make a statement regarding Timers. I’m glad that I’ve cleared up that misunderstanding,” Snow states, and Annie’s eyes are drawn to the rose in his lapel, so innocuous and pristine. “In fact, you can go back to your district and never return to the Capitol. You can be forgotten.”

Free. 

As much as any victor is allowed.

“Why?” She asks, stupidly, hands shaking, folded in her lap.

The Capitol doesn’t — won’t — _refuses_ to forget. They will remember her as the mad victor, add her to the list of those who cannot play their part as they intended.

“Why, Miss Cresta,” President Snow repeats, snakelike. “I thought I had made myself quite clear. As I stated earlier, I remain impressed by your discretion in Caesar Flickerman’s interviews. I thought it was only fair to reward you, and give you some advice. Are you ready to listen to it?”

There’s always a price to be paid. Always.

You lose some, and then you lose some more.

She exhales, damning herself once again, before meeting his unforgiving eyes. Her hands clench at her sides, before she speaks without flinching.

“Yes, President Snow.”

 

 

Later, she’ll lie. Say that she doesn’t remember the tour that much. Say that she was too drenched in grief to recall what happened, and that she looks at the gifts and mementos that were given to her, like they belonged to someone else, a different Annie Cresta. 

Annie remembers details with startling clarity: the songs Librae sung, the muddy fields of District Ten, the sympathy of Wiress and filling out number after number, trying to make nine numbers fit, trying to make the puzzle whole. She remembers how Seeder explained the meaning of flowers, the significance of those she picked, and how Ron stayed up late to talk to her when she couldn’t sleep.

She reviews Snow’s advice, his words always haunting the back of her mind, and wishes that she could erase it from her memory. How easily it tells her that he’s found a way to make use of her after all.

 

 

Ron slings his arm around her when she returns to the party, there for only a brief while that she might as well have imagined him at her side, before she is alone once more in a blinding sea of flashing lights, his words quietly murmured in her ear: 

“The worst is over now.”

 

 

Seeing Finnick —

Seeing Finnick emerge with a twisted, brutal smile, face stretched that it might as well snap, act unlike those two times they truly talked to each other, first in a room that pretended to be submerged in water, then on Mags’ sofa, sun setting, the culmination of a handshake, the promise of better beginnings.

Seeing Finnick act like how she thought he would initially be, The Great Finnick Odair,  _that_  feels like the worst part.

 

 

(The thought crosses Annie’s mind, as she stares at him that night, before, during, after, that she could have saved him.

And she damned him instead.)

 

 

Librae seethes, never leaving Annie’s side after that, scrubbing her cheek raw.

“Come on,” Librae growls. This isn’t up for dispute, Annie can tell, wouldn’t argue anyway, but Librae is bulldog-fierce, so Annie says nothing, but nods. Librae looks after her, like she has throughout the tour, progressively getting angrier and angrier. “Let’s get out of here.”

Most of the Capitol are too drunk to notice, Annie realizes, as they slip away in the early light of morning.

 

 

“How fucking dare they,” Librae hisses, as the door slams shut behind them, all the anger that she carries seeping out of her, into worry, into tiredness, into a look that says she wants nothing more to crawl into bed and escape this hell.

They’re alone, and all Librae can express is sadness.

“Librae,” Annie says, then again, when it becomes evident that Librae didn’t hear her. She’s still not sure what the issue is, but there information is there, trickled in her memory, waiting for her to piece the clues together. She just doesn’t know  _how_. Not yet. “What was that about?”

Librae stares at her, like all the air has been pushed out of her, and then she shakes her head. “Not here. It can wait, Annie. Okay?”

“Okay,” Annie says, trusting her.

“How was your talk with Snow?” Librae asks, carefully, as they trudge towards the nearest bedroom.

Annie shuts her eyes, tries to imagine for one second that the darkness is enough, that she won’t wake with the feeling that Teddy will be by her side, fails. “… I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Librae nods. “Let’s just try to get some sleep, yeah? We’re finally going home tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Annie manages a smile, small, and a little painful, but it’s the first time it feels like something real and manageable. “Some good news at last.”

Sleep comes easily, somehow. Annie doesn’t fight it, the sound of her breath evening into slow and steady breaths. Librae sleeps next to her, curled like a cat.

Ron bangs on the door hours later, like he always does, and Annie wakes to Librae’s grumbling, that she’s  _up, they’re up, just stop with the knocking, Stafford._

 

 

They’re all subdued and quiet when they board the train, hunched shoulders and solemn faced. Finnick makes his own way to the train, leaves himself isolated for half the journey, Librae’s expression one of guarded concern as she scrutinizes him, then turns away.

“C’mon, Annie,” Librae says, tugging Annie into the opposite direction, evidently unhappy with what information she’s deciphered on Finnick’s expression. “He’ll join us when he’s ready, might as well get some more sleep while we’re able.”

“Alright,” Annie says, tiredly, stifling a yawn. District Four isn’t so far, it takes less than a day to get there, and they’ll celebrate her return in the evening.

 

 

  
“How do you feel about District Four’s celebration?” Ron asks, before they get the chance to sleep. Annie can sense Librae’s pointed glare at him.

“I’ll be home, so,” Annie says simply, shrugging. “There’s that.”

It’s just one more thing she has to endure before she can find a little bit of solace, solitude, silence.

Mostly, she just wants to return to Neptune’s grave.

“There is that,” Librae agrees, stretching her limbs, and pats Ron on the shoulder, before announcing that she’s going back to sleep.

“You do that,” Ron says, rolling his eyes, when the carriage door slams shut, and her stomps are still audible. “How about you, Annie? Do you need more shut-eye?”

“No, that’s okay,” Annie shakes her head. She doesn’t feel like she could, even if she wanted to. “I’m just going to sit here.”

She stares out the window, taking it in. It’s different from before, before that fugue-like state when she was first declared a victor, before her week of mourning people that she loved and lost, before having a fortnight of relieving the horror and having Librae and Ron at her side and helping her through it.

She wants to say that coming home makes the sky seem brighter than before, something poetic and hopeful and optimistic, but to be honest, it still feels like a pale and dreary mess, smudging as she squints.

Ron stays with her in the carriage, lets her be.

 

 

The sailor songs bring her back.

She blinks, lost in her thoughts, wading on some sort of blurry memory-battlefield-space, far, far away from here. Something about the melody calls to her, like thread to guide her back, and she looks around, her hands curled into small fists, and she sees them clearly: Ron and Finnick and Librae, in the carriage with her.

All of them are singing, all of them small and tired and ready to go home.

She joins in when she’s remembers the words, and Annie tries to keep the songs with her, in her head, in her mind, in her thoughts, as she steps outside once more to the bright camera flash. She keeps it to a hum, and inhales for the first time, a long time, the sea salt breeze, in the embrace of her parents, Mags, and even Muscida.

One more time, she tells herself, she just has to be brave one more time

 

 

The entire evening is filled with sea shanties.

They vary from the emotional, to jubilant, to something bawdy, to some butchered version that doesn’t make sense sober, but do when drunk.

They sing songs which Annie sang with Librae on the train, the words fresh in Annie’s mind. Annie dances with Achilles, and laughs because her footwork is all sorts of wrong to the beat of the drums, and fares little better when she dances with her father.

Annie sings a solo song, like all victors do before her, half the thrill when she finishes the song without stumbling, the audience raucous as they applaud at her skill, word perfect from memory. Annie grins. She is their victor, after all.

The bawdier songs filter in more at dinner, in greater frequency than Annie remembers since the last tour that reached District Four. It’s a challenge, and Annie chokes when the crowd becomes louder and starts whistling at the more… _suspect_ lyrics.

There’s still time to dance, and so Annie does. She dances with Erin and Scott, who refuse to go bed  _just yet_ because they haven’t danced with her and they know her, they’re neighbours, they’re besties. 

Annie recalls all these songs, and she can’t help but rub her eyes as the sense of home returns to her. She finds Coral, dances with her too.

“Let’s go home,” Annie says, stumbling on her feet, and only slightly, slightly,  _slightly_  tipsy she speaks to her parents. She falls asleep to her father’s lullaby, his favourite serenade, and wakes up splayed on her bed, the duvet kicked down to her feet.

 _So this is how it’s going to be_ , Annie thinks, lying there, not ready to move, the hangover an unwelcome reminder of things to come. _Fuck._

 

 

Annie doesn’t feel like doing much that day, retreating in her house and refusing to leave.

She does eventually, though, because grief claws deep in her heart, and she does not think that she can let the day end without visiting his grave.

“I missed you, Jones,” Annie says, the evening lit by stars.

 

 

She visits him often, to check.

Mostly, it’s because she misses him, because she wants to talk to him still. Come rain or shine, Annie Cresta visits Neptune Jones and updates him, tells him what he’s missed, what Newt’s been up to, who’s bickering with who in the market.

Sometimes she sees Mr. Jones there, and they stand together, until one or both are ready to go. She nods at Mrs. Jones’ grave, and wishes that she could have met her.

But there’s a part of her that she doesn’t want to admit to having, that panics until she’s there, that believes that there’ll be a white rose placed on his grave. And only when she’s facing him, no rose in sight, can she breathe again.

 

 

“How are you doing?” Zeke asks, the morning after, tentative, cautious. They don’t speak about the tour.

Annie doesn’t answer at first, mulling over the answer, fingers tangled in her hair. It’s different than the last time she went to Capitol.

The first time around, Panem watched her go mad. The second time, Panem watch her in mourning.

She settles with a shrug. It’s not a question she feels ready to answer.

“You up to going to the market?” Zeke says, shifting on his feet as he makes a start on coffee. “We’re running out of eggs. I’d do it myself but…”

Annie wrinkles her nose. She already knows what he’s about to say. Same old script, same old dad. 

“We’re always running out of eggs.”

He changes task, opening the fridge door, staring at it for a while, adding, because he doesn’t tend to listen to people properly unless he’s had his coffee, “And ham too.”

“Make a list,” Annie sighs, giving in and stretching her limbs, pulling her arm over her head. “You’re lucky I feel like walking.”

“It’s a beautiful day,” Zeke says, trying and failing to whistle, and Annie snorts, as she turns to face the window.

It really isn’t, but it’s Tuesday, so. There’s that.

“Sure it is, Dad,” Annie says, humouring him.

 

 

She doesn’t realize that she’s bumped into Gwen until she’s apologizing, and stops mid-syllable, focus silencing her shock. Now  _that’s_  a face she hasn’t seen in a while.

“That you, Gwen?” Annie asks, warily, head tilted.

“The one and only!” Gwen chirps, jogging on the spot, like she’s got an irrepressible bout of the bubbles. So bouncy. “Long time, no see, right?”

“Right,” Annie agrees, smiling, laughing a little as Gwen embraces her. “Coral hasn’t mentioned you lately. Do you guys still hang out?”

“Actually,” Gwen’s cheeks blossom into a pretty pink, her hand placed on her neck, and Annie can’t help but glance at her wrist, left untouched by a Timer. She ignores a burst of envy. “Um. No. Not really.”

“Oh,” Annie blinks, pausing, wondering what to think next. “That’s a shame.”

“Yeah.”

Coral had hoped that her soulmate would be someone like Gwen. Up until the countdown had finally appeared, and it became apparent that it wasn’t to be, Coral had _wanted_ it to be Gwen so badly, was devastated that it wasn’t. It would have been so neat and safe and tidy like a fairy tale; everything that Coral had always wanted.

But that hadn’t stopped Coral from pining, in Annie’s opinion, teasing her best friend, and Coral protested, cheeks flushed.

That day, before Coral’s eyes had flicked up, her concentration centred on catching the rolling apple, Annie wonders if Coral had still hoped that the one person who would be Coral’s soulmate after all was Gwen.

But of course, that was how Coral met James.

(Annie’s never asked what happened next.)

“Running,” Annie says, abruptly changing the subject. “That’s new. Do you do that often?”

“Not as much as I should,” Gwen admits, gladly following the change of subject. “But I try to go out on a run at least once a week.”

“Sounds like fun,” Annie says, not meaning it in the slightest. She’s had her fair share of running this year.

“You should try it!” Gwen chirps, “Anyway, I’m going to finish my run. Come to the stall sometime, okay, Annie?”

“It’s a promise,” Annie calls after her, Gwen setting off at a steady pace.

 

 

“I thought it would be you,” Librae yawns, even though it’s the afternoon and Annie is knocking at Ron’s door. “Howdy, neighbour.”

“How’d you know it was me?” Annie asks, curious. Come to think of it, every time this happens, they seem to know it’s her.

“Easy, Cresta,” Librae says, sardonic, stepping back to let her in. “No one else knocks.”

She thinks of Mags, unfailingly polite. “I doubt that’s true.”

“And yet,” Librae shrugs, shutting the door. “That’s how it is.”

One day, Annie tells herself, she’ll ask why Librae stays at Ron’s mansion, instead of her own. As far as Annie can recall, Librae is always the one to answer the door, unless she’s sleeping. 

“Is Ron here?” Annie asks instead.

“Nope,” Librae says, making herself comfortable on the sofa, the television a low garble, neither of them watching. “You’re welcome to stay, though, if you like.”

“Yeah,” Annie nods, “I might just do that.”

Besides, she has a feeling that Ron might get annoyed if she picked up a trowel and started working on his garden without him.

 

 

“You know,” Ron says, when he arrives, “We could work on your garden, if you wanted.”

“Yeah?” Annie says, surprised, stuttering into a smile, as her voice becomes higher, “You mean it? I mean — that’s great! I’d really like that.”

“First thing’s first, then,” Ron states, clapping his hands, “You get rid of the gardener.”

“Done. Then we can get planning?” Annie grins, trying to unearth the ideas that she’d had, brief thoughts that were indulgent and whimsical and not yet set in stone.

“Then  _you_  can start planning,” Ron grins back, and it’s outrageous how her heart skips a beat, excited at the thought of her own garden, her own design. “This is your project, so you’re in charge. As for me, I can tell you what works and what doesn’t, and we can take it from there.”

There’s a pause.

“Sound good?” Ron asks, looking at her intently, waiting for her response.

“Sounds _great_ ,” Annie beams.

She’s had fleeting thoughts about it, but now, nothing feels concrete, and everything remains undecided. But Annie thinks about the seeds that she picked in District Eleven, the seeds that will grow into flowers, and then pressed into a scrapbook, and then given to her after the next Hunger Games. She thinks about the fuchsias and hibiscus that she selected, memorizing their meanings as Seeder scribbled it down, lest she forget, in a crumpled piece of paper and secretly passing it to her before the train left.

Her heart isn’t set on anything yet, but then, Annie supposes, delighted, she doesn’t have to be.

 

 

“You have to teach me how to make pancakes that delicious,” Annie says, leaning on the counter of Mags’ kitchen.

It’s not difficult to believe that Mags goes to the market every day, enjoying the walk there, the conversations she has with the merchants at the stalls. She might not buy everything, but it’s clear that Mags likes to be updated on the gossip and other trivialities of day to day life in District Four.

Annie tends to go early in the morning, fresh from having breakfast. It’s the perfect time of day, in her opinion, because there’s just enough crowdedness to slip through unnoticed, and empty enough to locate an exist path at a moment’s notice.

But if she’s goes to the market with Mags, then it’s almost noon when they go, and Annie doesn’t mind so much, feeling less alone with Mags at her side, even though she’s surrounded by faces she doesn’t recognize.

“Family secret,” Mags says, amusement twinkling in the blue of her eyes. “And, I have yet to try your cooking.”

“Ah,” Annie blushes, “I see how it is.”

“I have to make sure those pancakes are in the right hands,” Mags states seriously, belied by joy, her lined face easily makes it apparent that she’s teasing. “Now, are you coming to tomorrow’s dinner?”

Time passes quickly; it’s hard to believe that a month has already passed.

Annie presses her mouth into a thin line. “Is Muscida going?”

“As far as I know,” Mags nods, and Annie says nothing, lowering her lashes and trying to hide her annoyance. “He’s really not that bad.”

If he can avoid the topic about soulmates, then Annie almost certain that she’d agree. And maybe Ron is influencing her too much, but somehow, Annie can’t help but be irritated by Muscida, by what he thinks is important.

Speaking of soulmates…

“What about Finnick?” Annie asks, reluctantly. It’s weird; she doesn’t know how Finnick is always nowhere to be seen.

“He hasn’t said anything about not appearing,” Mags says, shrugging, “I think it’s safe to say that he’ll be there too.”

“Okay,” Annie says, pursing her lips, picking up her knife and fork to finish the rest of her pancake. She isn’t bothered by this. “Alright then.”

 

 

She thinks about the Great Finnick Odair, and the Finnick Odair that she met in Mags’ home, in twilight, at night. How she saved him, or damned him, and her cheeks burn in a flood of shame.

There’s probably nothing she can say to him, anyway.

 

 

As it happens, Finnick doesn’t show.

Annie doesn’t know if she feels relieved or not.

Muscida shows up though, and though Annie accepts, and knows on some instinctive level, that Muscida isn’t  _that bad_ , it’s easier to say very little to him instead.

 

 

(She knows that Muscida expressed his condolences, and yet his steadfast belief in soulmates is — it jars, grates, confounds — it makes the sentiment ring hollow.

She thinks about Coral, and how she stayed silent, always taking care to hide her wrist with bracelets and long sleeves, not that matters. Everyone knows about the blank lines on her wrist, how it was exposed in the interviews, in front of the Capitol for all of Panem to see.

It’s different.

It’s different now, and they don’t talk about it, now that they’ve found their soulmates.

It’s different because it’s Coral, who is unhappy, because it’s Muscida, who isn’t.

And Annie, who fidgets and scratches at her Timer like a bad itch — Annie never wanted to know anyway.)

 

 

It goes unspoken, that if you want to survive in the Games, you at least keep your Timer on until the interview stage.

Sponsors liked that. 

The idea that if they helped a tribute, they were going out of their way to try and see if they were smart enough to survive and be reunited to their soulmate.

Sponsors liked that idea a lot.

 

 

“What’s got you glum?” Jules asks, passing her orange juice. If only it was on the house.

“You really want to know?” Annie asks, sighing heavily.

It’s nice; the solitude Jules’ cafe can give her, the strange solace and sight of the sea, clouds wispy and stretching miles of sky. But maybe conversation would be welcome too.

“Look around,” Jules smiles, gently, and Annie has no need to confirm what she already knows: the cafe is empty; it’s a slow business day. It’s not always the case, but today is just one of those days, those interludes, and she was lucky enough to find it when it’s quiet. “You’re my best customer.”

“Today, at least,” Annie quips, rueful. “Tomorrow, or even in another hour, I’m not so sure.”

“True,” Jules agrees, and Annie laughs, despite herself. His expression is full of compassion when he gazes at her. “So what’s up?”

“I just,” Annie sighs, “don’t know what to do.”

“About what? Life? Love? Something else?” Jules asks, guessing vaguely.

She shrugs. “Something like that.”

Her heart spikes at the thought of Neptune, and then it’s not spike, but a thorn, a rupture, and her heart is cleaved in two.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Annie says, eyes wet, and she’s blinking furiously, “It would have been our third anniversary next week.”

The tears fall, treacherous. Her eyesight blurs and she rubs her eyes, trying to stop them, and ends up sobbing instead, her head buried in her arms.

People will never know.

Annie Cresta loved Neptune Jones so  _much._

 

“It doesn’t matter that he wasn’t my soulmate,” Annie says, later, when the tears have dried and her face is ruddy; her voice nothing but a hoarse whisper. “I loved him.”

“I know,” Jules nods, sympathetic. “He was good lad. Nothing negates that, Annie.”

She hates the mind-set that meeting your soulmate means you’ve found your true love, your only love, your last love. She hates everything about it.

She did not love Neptune less when she found out her soulmate was Finnick Odair.

“Did you love someone else too?” Annie asks, grabbing a napkin to wipe her face.

“Once,” Jules smiles, wistfully. “Or at least, I thought I did. Still do, I guess. She was — someone I was content to waste time with. Hell, there was even a time where I thought about marrying her.”

That catches Annie’s attention. “So why didn’t you?”

“I forget,” Jules answers blithely. “It was years and years before I met my husband. Maybe we fought one too many times. Maybe I looked at the Timer and thought; this relationship had run its course. Maybe I was tired of being the person I was around her.”

“And that was the last relationship you ever had before you met him?” Annie asks, frowning. That hardly seemed fair, especially if he had years to go before meeting his soulmate.

“No, I’m not  _that_  much of a stick in the mud,” Jules snorts, incredulous. “I had a fair share of partners. I dallied. But they never got quite as serious like that one. And then I met him, and I knew, he was it. Or I would have, but it was three in the morning, and I was half-asleep.”

“So you fell in love just like that?” She sounds a bit like Coral, Annie thinks, absently, as she hears herself speak. Not as cynical, just curious.

“Not quite. The paintings came first, and then I fell in love with him,” Jules replies, smiling in reminisce. “Now, he — he could probably call him a stick in the mud. But he’s the reliable sort, stick in the mud or not.”

“They’re not half bad,” Annie says, inspecting the paintings that are on the walls. Something about it twigs at her memory, but she can’t place it. 

“Yeah, he used to be completely terrible, that’s what I liked about them,” Jules smirks, proud, “But wouldn’t you know it, he improved.”

 

 

Annie decides to spend the next victors’ dinner with Coral instead. It’s not a problem, Mag tells her, so long as she bakes a cake as recompense.

“I wish you didn’t let them cut your hair,” Coral sighs, her gaze flicking to Annie’s locks of hair, reaching out to touch her. There’s an expression of dismay that Annie catches.

“Hair grows back,” Annie says softly, simply. She’d told Teddy this too. She averts her eyes. “Victoria knew what she was doing.”

At Coral’s confusion, Annie clarifies, “My stylist.”

“Right,” Coral says. Realization strikes on her face, and she rubs at the back of her neck, mildly embarrassed. “I should have guessed that.”

“I don’t think I’ve mentioned her before,” Annie flushes, chest constricting. “I wasn’t sure how much —”

“What?” Coral asks, when Annie stays silent for too long, her grey eyes searching, insistent, worried. “Annie, it’s okay. You can tell me.”

Annie’s face reddens, her voice a little more than a murmur, but still, Annie obliges. She nods. “I wasn’t sure how much you’d want to hear about the Games. The Capitol. My soulmate. Teddy.”

Her heart is steady, steady, steady, beating to a dirge. Her voice dies away, caught by the breeze that roves through wild grass, nooks and crannies of large stones.

“I’d like to know,” Coral says, eventually, flyaway strands of flaxen hair at the mercy of sea salt zephyrs. Out of the corner of her eye, Annie sees Coral chewing absent-mindedly on her bottom lip, still caught in thought and feelings. “Whenever you want to talk to me about it.”

It’s been eight months, nearly nine, and she doesn’t feel ready yet. She can’t talk to Coral about all of it, not the parts which sting too much, which leave her reeling, which cling to her like sweat after a nightmare. But the other parts, the parts where she can almost mourn the girl she used to be, the parts where she teased Teddy about his crush on Finnick Odair, the parts where Regulus made funny faces and rolled his eyes, his face smushed into his hands as he thought best at how to initiate a high five…

These parts, Annie realizes, as she thinks back to those times without recoiling, these parts aren’t painful to remember. Not as they once were.

“Another time,” Annie says, anyway, looking away to gaze at the ocean waves, almost overriding the quiet  _alright_  that Coral utters. 

 

 

(She thinks about it — about asking Coral about James, about asking why Coral  _hasn’t_  asked, not even once, about her soulmate, even though she must know that it wasn’t Neptune.

Annie hasn’t told anyone apart from Neptune that —

But then, Annie recalls, deflating at the thought, Coral had been disappointed with her soulmate, she’d scarcely said a word about it since. Her curiosity diminished, though sometimes, Annie couldn’t help but feel that Coral had _wanted_ to ask, but didn’t.

A complete disillusionment did that.)

 

 

And another thing —

Annie hates that she’s so conscious about the whole soulmate thing now — now that she knows —

She can’t tell whether it’s because of the Capitol and their obsession, whether Neptune is dead, or Coral has hardly spoken of it since, or whether it’s because she was forced to wear a Timer and since the odds were never in her favour, Annie had to find out the very next day —

It drives her mad that she can’t ignore it the way she used to.

 

 

Baking was an art form she had yet to perfect.

“No,” Mags was saying, brow creased, as she tries to show Annie how, “it’s more like  _this_ —” 

She could follow the recipe just fine, Annie felt, as Mags went over the steps with her, but then, without her realizing it, there was flour on her face and on her clothes and then she’d get another step wrong, like beating the mixture too long, or forgetting that flour existed and she’d end up looking like a ghost because flour isn’t sugar and somehow Annie hadn’t noticed or —

“Have Scott and Erin being mixing them up?” Annie asks, noticing the altogether too innocent angelic grins on their faces. “Actually —”

“My darling grandkids?” Mags says, sounding outraged, and Annie nearly splutters and backtracks at that very instant, only Mags is hooting with laughter, “Well, that might explain a few things.”

“Might not!” Scott shoots back, Erin chiming, quickly otherwise.

“Might not,” Annie agrees. 

Mags rolls her eyes. “Hush, get baking.”

 

 

She gets better at it, eventually.

But not before there’s at least one incident where Erin and Scott cause mayhem because they’re brats and accidentally devoured cookies that have entirely way too much salt because  _someone forgot to mention that they were playing a prank_. 

Mags cackled entirely too gleefully.

 

 

A week before the next victors’ dinner, Annie knocks on Finnick’s door.

“Oh,” Annie finds herself saying, her mind a stupid blank when it’s not Finnick at the door. “… Maria?”

“Sophie’s kid,” Maria beams, full of teeth. Annie can see the resemblance to Finnick now, the slope of her nose, the tousled wave of curls. Wonders how she didn’t see the connection before. “Annie, right? What can I do for ya?”

“I’m looking for Finnick,” Annie says, after a moment, her mind still in a daze. “So, you’re —”

“His aunt,” Maria supplies, as Annie’s voice trails away into a meek  _oh_. “I’m betting Sophie didn’t mention it to you?”

Annie shrugs, not entirely certain if that’s the case. “She might have? I don’t always pay attention…”

She knows that Sophie and Mara spend some time together, that they sometimes clash over their sense of humour, but they have fun bickering at each other.

Maria laughs. “Alright then. Well, now you know.”

“Now I know,” Annie agrees, nodding. “I probably should have noticed earlier.”

“It’s fine,” Maria shakes her head, her hand flicking the matter away, like it’s no concern of hers. Or maybe she understands, having lived with a victor, that at first, it’s hard to notice these things, and then after a while, the details have slipped past her awareness for so long that it feels like a waste of energy to attend to it after all. “Anyway, you're looking for Finnick?” 

“Yep,” Annie says, throat tight, figuring it’s too late to back out now. She said that she was going to do this, and now is a good time as any.

“You just missed him,” Maria informs her, shrugging, and there should be a sense of relief that came with that announcement, but instead, there’s just a growing anxiety in her stomach, twisting. “If you run, you could probably catch him. He’s heading off to the library.”

“I see,” Annie says, suppressing the dread that comes with that knowledge, compressing it into a smile by the time she murmurs, “Thank you.”

“Want me to tell him you dropped by?” Maria asks, and Annie freezes, paranoia buzzing under her skin, on her wrist that she can’t wait to tear away.

There’s nothing implicating in the way Maria says it, no knowing look in her eyes, but Annie can’t escape the caginess, like she’s been caught red-handed at something she shouldn’t.

Do people even try to befriend Finnick Odair?

She pushes the thought away.

“Yes.”

 

 

She doesn’t go to the library. She hasn’t gone to the library in  _years_. The last time she went, Annie was fourteen and failing magnificently at trying not to sneeze. The time before that, she had hiccups, and hiccups comes hand in hand with other people listening expectantly and giggling predictably.

Annie’s fairly certain that Librarian Maureen hates her guts, and any time Annie sees Librarian Maureen outside of the library, Annie can’t help but try to pretend that she doesn’t exist in case she skitters away like a mouse.

 

 

He meets her on the steps of Victor’s Village, sunlight streaming behind him, in the early hours of mourning, when everyone else is asleep. It’s not something Annie does often, sneak away from the mansion, tiptoeing out like she’s seventeen and trying to hang out with her friends, but at this stage, she could almost call it a guilty habit.

It looks so strange to see him there, that part of her almost instantly believe that he’s an illusion. But he opens his mouth and talks, and the reality of the situation is just as awkward as she thought it would be.

“Hey,” Finnick says, hands buried deep in his pockets, sounding bemused. His gaze quickly shifts to staring at her home instead, at anything that it is not quite her. “Maria said you were looking for me?”

“Something like that,” Annie nods, “I thought we should talk.”

“So you knocked,” Finnick says, smiling, and he sounds charmed. Like Librae.

“Is there some rule that says I shouldn’t?” Annie lifts her eyebrow, huffing. Librae still teases her about this. “Did joining the Victors’ mean that somewhere along the way, we can just enter each other’s houses at will?”

She’s pretty certain that the first time Ron ever visited her, he knocked.

“You could say that,” Finnick makes a face, amused. “You haven’t noticed?”

“I notice that people keep on commenting that  _I_  do,” Annie says, somewhat stiffly. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Probably not, no,” Finnick agrees, loftily, “Though if you wanted, you could raise the issue at the next dinner. Stage it like an intervention. Really get us going.”

Annie ignores him.

“The real question is, what are you doing up so early?” Finnick asks, eyebrows arched.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Annie replies, her grip on her rucksack tightening, and starting her walk. “I like to sneak away sometimes. Just because I can. Your turn.” 

“I wake up early,” Finnick says, matching her pace. “Nothing quite so… nefarious, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not nefarious,” Annie says, her steps becoming brisk.

“Mmhm, okay,” Finnick flicks his eyes at her, full of disbelief, and then asks, carelessly, “Where are we going then?”

“The beach,” Annie answers simply. “How is that nefarious?”

He laughs instead of answers, and she kind of wants to throttle him.

 

 

They don’t talk as Annie leads the way, the only noise made is their footfalls, and even then, there’s a practiced carefulness about it, light and nimble, like cats in midnight, convening for a meeting.

“This is it?” Finnick says, breaking the silence first, and Annie waits for him to use the word nefarious again. “It’s nice place.”

“Yeah. People don’t go here often, so I thought we could go here to… talk,” Annie nods, feeling hesitant, slinging the rucksack off her shoulders and pulls out a blanket. “I mainly come here to think, though, when it’s just me.”

There are other reasons why she comes here, instead of the piers, or Jules’ cafe. She feels so insular here, and it’s strange that over time that became comforting, when at first that terrified her, the thoughts in her head overcrowding.

Finnick doesn’t say anything to that, quiet and watching, taking the wilderness in.

The interlude lasts for minutes, and Annie tries to lose herself by staring at the sea. It used to be discomforting here, too loud, too noisy, a cacophony of sound, the crashing waves going back and forth, overlapping; she can hear the caw of a seagull, the waves rustling through the stones, snarling through the wild thickets of grass. 

Maybe she’s just pretending, but here, she really does feel alone, and she’s grateful for that sense of privacy which she can’t find at Victor’s Village, at anywhere else in District Four.

She thinks she could stay here for hours, and just take the view in. Always by the water’s edge.

“I think I get it,” Finnick says, understanding colouring his voice, “So, what did you want to talk about?”

“Um,” Annie says, floundering. She hadn’t thought that far ahead and somehow she’s forgotten how to continue a conversation. Eventually, she settles on the basics. “How are you?”

“Good,” Finnick says, after a beat. He blinks. “Wait, your nefarious plan was to get me alone on a beach and to ask me  _how I am?"_

“Yes,” Annie says, stalwart, then rolls her eyes because she cannot believe him. “I already told you, I’m  _not_  nefarious!”

“Could have fooled me,” Finnick says, purposely being an absolute fucker, raising his hands up like he’s the innocent party. “Alright, maybe you’re not  _nefarious_ —”

“Thank you!”

“— but you definitely could have gone about it in a simpler fashion,” Finnick amends, and Annie’s honestly not sure if that’s better or worse. “To ask me such a simple question, you needn’t have gone out of your way…”

Annie exhales.  _Ridiculous._  

“Finnick,” Annie states plainly, “How else was I going to — let’s go back to the beginning, okay? We met in pretty unideal circumstances, but we met. We agree to be friends. Shit happens. I became victor. More shit happens. Time passes. When we  _actually_  meet again, we agree —”

“That I’m a shitty friend,” Finnick says, “Yes, I remember.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Annie nods. “We don’t talk again. More shit happens. The Victory Tour happens. We meet again. And that was pretty shit. Then some more time passes, and… we still don’t talk to each other. And, I don’t know, is it because of the whole… soulmate thing that we keep on avoiding each other?”

She sighs.

“I really _do_ want to be friends, Finnick. So, yeah, this is probably long overdue, and, I’m asking this ridiculously simple question in a convoluted manner, but how are you? How the fuck would you have done it?”

Finnick smiles, and Annie wishes that he didn’t.

It’s such a small, sad smile that says everything without him meaning to, that he doesn’t have an answer, that maybe he doesn’t even know.

“Look, maybe you’re not such a shitty friend after all,” Annie relents, turning her gaze to the stones, smooth and flat and rounded. This beach is filled with stones instead of sand, and she likes this beach for that reason. Absently, she picks at the corner of her wrist. “Between… being a mess, and the stress of the Capitol, I think it’s pretty fair to say that it’s the timing that’s shittier instead. We don’t… really get a chance for this work, do we?”

“No,” Finnick agrees, his mouth manufacturing something she doesn’t like the sight of, his shoulders tensing, and looking distinctly more uncomfortable the longer she stares at him. “Not really, but it’s nice of you to look at it that way.”

“How else am I going to look at it?” Annie asks, dryly. The way Annie sees it, he hasn’t done anything wrong beside severing the link between them, a tenuous link that indicated that they were soulmates the second they met, proof that someone existed outside the Games, and by then — by then, Annie was so far past the point of caring that it hardly seemed to matter.

“I don’t know,” Finnick shakes his head, sighing, sinking his shoulders, looking distinctly worn out. “Another way.”

Annie sighs. They could probably argue in circles about this, and achieve nothing by it. That isn’t why she brought him here. She brought him here to —

To move past this.

“Are you okay?” Annie asks, trying to return to the conversation before it took a distinct turn that she didn’t want to go. Not yet, at least. 

“I guess,” Finnick says, “Are you?”

“I’m okay,” Annie admits, nodding, “Not as mad as I used to be.”

The sky is clear. The sea is calm. There are seagulls in the distance, flying somewhere far, far away.

He winces. “Don’t… we were all mad victors once, Annie. We just… hid it differently.”

 _Better_ , Annie hears, unspoken. She thinks about Ron’s words, bad days and days. They all leave the games as broken children, innocence long since vanished in bloodshed and desperation, fear and hunger changing them all for the worse. Anger exists within them, a thorn in their side, and sometimes they have the words, the rush of hate a constant thrum in their veins as they redirect it into the brightest smile. They’re all the same, all mad, all furious, all playing their parts, after they’ve learnt to act like sycophants and loathe every second of it. But that comes later, after the scars heal, and a sense of normality can be regained, stabilized. 

“Did Ron help you?” Annie asks.

“He tried. Turned out I’m not much of a green thumb,” Finnick admits, grimacing as he stares at his hands. “It was nice, but wasn’t for me. I did a bit of everything, though. Ron, Mags, Muscida, Librae, they all helped. They understood what I was going through.”

“Yeah,” Annie says, lips pressed. She tries to imagine him as fourteen, young, scrappy, unpolished, and all the victors looking out for him because he’d become part of their family. Fourteen,  _fuck_.

There’s nothing really she can say to that.

“I guess this past year, I was reminded of how I used to be. And, I didn’t want to be reminded,” Finnick says, self-depreciating, contemptuous, “It wasn’t because we're soulmates, Annie, though that probably didn’t help, I just… haven’t been great at handling the situation like everyone else has.”

“That’s okay,” Annie says, and she feels a bit lighter now, with understanding him better than before. “Sounds like you got a pretty rough deal, all the same. We’ve both got baggage to sort through.” 

“You could say that,” Finnick says, laughing a bit, as he agrees with her.

“So, I suggest that we take a time out, and try our hand at skipping stones instead. First to ten buys lunch at Jules’,” Annie decides, standing up and rolling her sleeves, like an expert stone skipper should. Definitely time for something light and fun.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Finnick Odair grins at her, sea green eyes mischievous, as he grabs some stones and stuffs them in his pockets for retaliation. “Bring it on.”

 

 

She doesn’t like to dream.

There’s no such thing as a good dream these days, only memories and nightmares, blurring into each other that Annie hates them both.

She dreams of Neptune, of him and her splayed across the docks, watching the sun rise and fall, before they had to sneak back to their separate houses and hope that their parents hadn’t noticed them. She dreams of the pink glow of the sky smudge the Timers of her wrist, as she peels and peels and peels the dashes away. She dreams of his kisses, his tears, his clever fingers. She dreams and she dreams and she dreams, and she wakes up with her heart heavy, sweat cooling on her skin.

She dreams of Teddy, the shadow of a vulture always lurking somewhere in the shadows, perched on someone, something. She dreams of the time when he was five and broke his ankle by climbing a tree, of the time when he was ten and specks of sand coated across his skin because he liked to swim and then roll his wet body across the sand even though he complained for weeks afterwards. She dreams of the time he tries to say a name (hers, Coral’s, Finnick’s) and never quite finishes because there’s blood filling his throat and spurting down his chest and how can he even try to spit it out with a sword in his neck —

And Annie wakes, wracked in guilt, perspiring, and has to tell herself that she has live for the both of them again and again until she can bring herself to believe it.

 

 

There’s something more bearable about the next victor’s dinner than the previous ones.

It’s not just because her burgeoning friendship with Finnick, Annie thinks. They can offer small talk to each other now, and treading lightly on icy waters.

Annie helps Mags bake a cake, rich with chocolate and strawberry jam, and when she hands a slice to Muscida she almost feels amicable, like they’ve reached a truce, albeit grudgingly.

For Muscida Selkirk’s part, he doesn’t say anything but thank you.

 

 

“You know what would be nice?” Sophie says, fingers drumming on the table, as she peers at the garden, the gardener long since fired. “Strawberries.”

“It could be both a vegetable and flower garden,” Annie muses, taking the idea to heart, testing the sound in her mouth. “That’s… brilliant, actually. I really like that. Why not have both?”

“But just strawberries?” Zeke queries, raising his brow, as he thinks about it, exploring the idea further. “What about raspberries?”

“What about potatoes?” Sophie adds, arms folding across her chest, gazing expectantly at both of them.

“And tomatoes,” Annie snaps her fingers, unable to resist.

“Potatoes, tomatoes,” Zeke sighs, pronouncing them differently, and Annie tries not to smile when she witnesses her mother’s inevitable response.

“ _Zeke_ ,” Sophie says, stressing his name the way she does when she’s mildly annoyed with him. “Go fry an egg and make us some breakfast.”

“Yes, Mrs Cresta. At once, Mrs Cresta,” Zeke cheerfully says, and that’s enough for Sophie to crack an exasperated smile.

“Vegetables in the garden,” Annie murmurs to herself, picturing it now: at the back, filled with potatoes, strawberries, the raspberries and tomatoes. The front could be more flowers orientated, and they could place the table in the centre of the garden. “Yeah, that could work.”

 

 

“Strawberries,” Ron echoes to himself, tilting his head, while he thinks about it, after Annie tells him of her plans, possible ideas for the future of her garden. “I might know a guy…”

“Chaff?” Annie guesses, and Ron guffaws.

“Guess again,” Ron teases, as Librae takes advantage of the situation by punching Annie’s shoulder with a gentle fist.

“Alright, look at you,” Librae grins, ringlets shining in the sunlight, and Annie gazes at her shoulder then back to Librae, confusion clearly felt over her face. Librae pays no notice to this. “You’re really getting into this gardening shit.”

“Yeah,” Annie nods, agreeing, her cheeks suddenly warm. She feels light all of a sudden, like she’s made of bubbles, ready to float into the air. “I really am.”

 

 

She paints seashells in her free time, when the mood suits her. She goes with Coral for walks on the beach, and collects more shells, spending a few lazy afternoons going back what she used to do when she was bored. She feels normal when she paints; the simplicity of the task giving her a peace of mind when all she has to do is focus on what feels intuitive.

Erin’s birthday is taking place instead of the next victor’s dinner, and Annie wants it to be perfect.

 

 

“Annie,” Finnick calls her name, and Annie freezes. He looks at her with concern, narrowing the distance between them faster than she notices, catching a sparkle of curiosity in his sea green eyes. There’s a crease between his eyebrows. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah,” Annie says, eventually, unconvincingly — his eyebrows lift, both of them, to her dismay — after a beat, she confesses. “Actually, you startled me.”

“I startle a lot of people, but I don’t usually get  _that_  reaction,” Finnick notes with interest, leaning closer while Annie stands her ground. It’s like he’s playing a game, which only he knows the rules, and Annie isn’t here for it. “Usually, Annie, people act a little happier to see me.”

“I’m sure Librae would disagree,” Annie demurs, blandly.

“Probably,” Finnick grins, brushing off her indifference with a row of white teeth, like his misinterpreted it as a joke instead. “Friends, eh?”

“Yours, maybe,” Annie retorts, affronted. She doesn’t have a clue about what Finnick is like around people he considers friends.

His grin widens, like he’s saying  _well played._

"So, what’s up?” Annie tilts her head; slightly bemused that he’s seeking her out.

“Thought we were giving that friendship thing a shot?” Finnick admits, somewhat bashfully. “It’s a two way street. So I’ve heard.”

“It is,” Annie smiles, candid. “What did you have in mind?”

Finnick declares, excitedly, “The library!”

“Oh, no.”

The words are out before she can even stop them.

He looks like he’s about to burst into laughter, confused at her reaction. “What?”

“Nope.” Annie raises her hands, the gesture of defeat, and walks the opposite way. “Not today.”

“Lunch, then,” Finnick revises, and Annie stops. “Gotcha.”

“Talk,” Annie turns back, her attention caught, despite herself. “I’m listening.”

He smiles disarmingly and she hates him a little bit, how effortless he makes her see how easy their friendship could be. That he’s worth spending time around.

“There’s this place I know,” Finnick begins, “I get free orange juice there.”

“How did you do that?” Annie asks, interested, and he grins again, so impossibly likable, eyes lit up because someone like Finnick has a way with words, and he’ll spin her tale that shouldn’t make sense, but it sounds so amazing and natural it must be true.

 

 

“So why do you find libraries so nefarious?” Finnick asks, chin in his hands, after winking at Jules, and Annie awkwardly waves, and then finds himself a table.

“I don’t find them  _nefarious_ , alright?” Annie says, her face growing warm as he stares at her, in some sort of parodic example of intrigue. “That’s not — stop using that word. That’s not what it means.”

“Have you read the dictionary lately?” Finnick asks,  _sotto voce_ , fluttering his eyelashes, and Annie snorts.

“Have you?” Annie snickers, unable to take him seriously when he’s being so ridiculous. 

“I’m the one asking the questions here,” Finnick says, exaggerated.

Annie’s not above kicking him in the shin.

“Alright, fine,” Annie concedes, trying her own hand at dramatic, taking a gulp and lowering her voice into a whisper. “Is Librarian Maureen still there?”

“ _Oh,_ ” Finnick looks at her, eyes wide in realization, until his mouth curls into a delighted grin. “She’s a  _beast_ , what did you  _do,_  Annie Cresta?”

“I don’t have to answer that,” Annie holds her head up high.

His expression turns genuinely invested, conspiratorial. “You must have done something  _awful._ ”

“I don’t have to answer that either,” Annie announces primly, not about to admit to anything. 

As much as she wants to blame bad timings and unfortunate illnesses, that’s not how she gained Librarian Maureen’s hatred.

“You should meet Librarian Adrian,” Finnick tells her, mulling over the prospect with a feline type of laziness, indulgent and devious. “Now  _he_ is the one that  _really_  hates my guts.”

Never in Annie’s life, did she think that she would bond over something as stupid as getting on a librarian’s bad side.

Finnick looks at her, mouth quirked. “Interested?”

 

 

There’s a difference between Finnick Odair and the Great Finnick Odair, Annie notices, the more time she spends with him.

The latter is built on his reputation, what people  _think_  he ought to be; and his body changes as he transforms into their expectations. The clues lie in the slant of his shoulders, the way he tilts his head and smiles, the gleam in his teeth sharpening as he regards his audience. He wields himself like a weapon.

The former is — the angles are there, sharp as a paper cut, easy enough to bleed if you aren’t looking properly. He’s got a sharp mouth and a slick sense of humour, darker than Annie occasionally expects. There’s flippancy in his moods, and he’s quiet when he wants to be, content not to be the centre of attention.

But she likes  _this_  Finnick, the quieter, bookish, snarkier Finnick that talks about books she hasn’t heard of and doesn’t intend to read, in spite of the times duality that leaves her reeling from whiplash.

 

 

Sometimes, she can’t help but envision what Teddy would be like if he survived.

Would he be as messed up as her, still going through the motions of bad dreams and trying to find the motivation to get out of bed? Would he drift, and forget that time slips away so easily if he doesn’t pay attention? Would he wake up and think that the simple act of getting into a shower feels like too much?

Or would he be better adjusted to life after the Games?

 

 

(He’d be friends with Finnick, Annie knows, and even though she likes Finnick, enough to call him her friend now, there is a part of her that is living vicariously for Teddy.)

 

 

She remembers what Ron told her. How it isn’t linear, how there are good days, bad days, and sometimes, there are just  _days._ Tries to tell herself that the same applies for when she falls asleep, there are dreams, there are nightmares, and something there’s nothing at all, a great void that she doesn’t remember.

Annie rubs at the shadows under her eyes, and tries to tell herself is has nothing to do with the fact that there’s two months before the Seventy-First Hunger Games.

(It has nothing to do with Snow’s advice.)

 

 

“You keep telling yourself it gets easier, maybe one day, you start to believe it,” Librae says, fingers wrapped around a bottle of beer, when Annie wants to talk to someone who understands. “Hasn’t worked for us yet, but if everyone else thinks it’s true, maybe that’s the point.”

“Oh,” Annie says, teeth worrying her lip.

“Yeah,” Librae frowns, exhaling, the air pushing the strands of hair that have fallen in front of her face away. “But then — it feels like day one all over again and you don’t know what set you off, you’re just trying to hold on, but your mind is miles away, and you’re afraid.”

Annie understands that all too well.

“It’s… the silence that gets me most, you know? I used to go to these clubs where the music’s too loud, get shit-drunk, and wake up screaming because it’s too quiet when it’s just —” Librae breaks off, drums her nails on the brown glass, takes a breath, “I barely lasted five seconds when they gave my new digs. Ron was pretty accommodating, when I asked him if he could make do with a roommate.”

“That why you’re always here,” Annie says, more of a statement than a question. Then she realizes. “You live with Ron.”

“Bingo,” Librae snaps her fingers, pointed like a gun. “This is my home, Cresta. Ron complains, but… it’s too late for him to kick me out, mainly because he’s got used to having me around.”

“Really?”

“Don’t believe him if he says otherwise,” Librae says, flatly, and Annie laughs. She can see him complaining and grumbling about his roommate far too easily. “Anyway. We should go to a club. Party the night away.”

"And get shit-drunk,” Annie grins, continuing the sentence and brightening at the prospect. “I like the sound of that.”

 

 

Muscida plays the piano. Or rather:

“I know a ditty or two,” Muscida admits, modestly, when Annie looks at him with a curious glance, unaware that this side of him existed. “Do you have any requests?”

Erin does, as the birthday girl is wont to do, piggyback riding on Finnick, her arms wrapped neatly around his neck. She has several, and Muscida isn’t one to refuse any of them, rising to the challenge and plays them all, note perfect.

“Is that what your talent is?” Annie asks later, after she’s given Erin her bracelet, and she’s feeling giddy having drunk too many fizzy drinks. She blames the sugar rush.

“Not quite,” Muscida replies, slowing the tune in his hands like a waltz, letting the musical notes breathe and linger, waves moving across the shore. “Playing the piano is just a hobby of mine.”

“But you’re still going to give me lessons, right?” Scott demands, cutting into the conversation, Erin close at hand, having thought up another song.

“Right you are, Scottie,” Muscida smiles, indulging the birthday girl in another favourite tune of hers, something that’s pretty and light and sprightly.

“Can you play other instruments?” Annie inquires, when Erin makes an announcement that it’s time for the birthday cake, Mags’ laughter not too far behind.

“I can’t sing,” Muscida says, clearing his throat, but he’ll try for Mags’ granddaughter anyway.

 

 

Annie doesn’t go to her old house as much as she used to.

It used to be once a week, then once every two weeks, and now it’s only once a month; though Sophie Cresta mentions it from time to time, and Annie offers to go in her stead. There’s dust to clear up, and Annie can’t bear to leave her old house alone.

It’s still hers; after all, a reminder that there was a part of her exists unchanged inside those walls.

 

 

She takes Finnick along because he’s too nosy for his own good, and Annie doesn’t really mind it when he is.

“How do you keep appearing like that?” Annie says, exasperated, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Oh, you know,” Finnick beams, fresh from the kick of coffee that Amalia makes in the stalls — his third? fifth? cup that Annie is pretty sure she’s going to call him a coffee addict the next time she meets him in the market place and doesn’t keep being so surprised that he’s there. “I’m nefarious like that.”

“You need to use a different word,” Annie says to him, and he laughs, beatific in the morning light.

“What would you suggest?” Finnick says, as they start their way to Annie’s old house. “Admirable? Gorgeous?  _Mysterious?_ ”

Annie rolls her eyes, snarking. “None of the above.”

 

 

“Looks like a nice place,” Finnick comments when they arrive and Annie digs out the key from her pocket; slightly twitchy from having drank too much coffee. “Very quaint.” 

“Thanks,” Annie mumbles, twisting the door knob and stepping through. “We like to keep the house clean. You sure you’re going to help?”

“So long as you can find a duster,” Finnick nods, looking around. Cleaning is the last thing on his mind, Annie thinks, as she tries to recall where exactly it was supposed to be.

“Oh, I will, don’t worry,” Annie remarks, dryly. “Where did you used to live?”

Sometimes she wonders, as Annie looks around, if this house is only holding itself together because it contains memories. There’s so much dust floating in the air, in the golden light, and Annie ruminates, idly toying with the idea that if she leans against one doorway, would she be able to spot a five year old Annie Cresta, staring at her, with wide eyes and messy locks of hair, much to the consternation of her mother. Would she lose herself to the past if she stayed in her old house forever?

Distantly, she touches the back of her neck. Her hair’s grown back, reaching past her shoulders now, and she marvels silently at how that happened, how easily time passed without her noticing.

“Ever heard of Palm Brinks Square?” Finnick answers back, voice muffled as he looks for something — everything except a duster, Annie assumes, as she makes her way towards the sound of his voice. “Hmm.”

“Can’t say that I have,” Annie says, moving through the kitchen, and turns on the tap. There’s a squeak that’s reassuring, before the rush of water, and Annie can’t help but smile. Zeke Cresta never did manage to fix things. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for books!”

“Books?” Annie repeats, blinking and feeling confused. Tries to recall if she even has some. However dusty they might be.

“That’s right,” Finnick confirms, footfalls heavy as he explores this unknown territory like a rampant poltergeist. “You _do_ have some, right?”

“Maybe…” Annie mutters, somewhat dubiously, just as she hears Finnick exclaim,  _“Aha!”_

“Found them?” Annie peers through, spotting Finnick with a book in hand, as he blows at the cover, dust flying into the air. “Where did Mom put that duster, seriously?”

Finnick ignores the latter part, ridiculously pleased. “Yup.”

“Great,” Annie says, dryly. “And they’re important because…?”

“Because you should have good taste in books, if you’re going to be my —” Finnick stutters, stops, and sighs, resigned. In a quieter voice, he continues, “— my friend.”

She knows how it should have ended.

“And your soulmate should have?”

“Good taste in books,” Finnick says, sheepishly smiling as Annie clucks her tongue, instead of saying  _thought so._ He looks at her, somewhat apprehensive. “Does that bother you?”

Annie mulls it over, biting the corner of her lip while she comes to her decision. Eventually, she shakes her head. 

“No, it’s okay.”

Soulmate isn’t a dirty word, and it’s never bothered her when someone else uses it, when they talk about their own. Sometimes, she forgets that she has one, though she should probably never admit that. But _are_ they still soulmates? Even now?

“I mean, it’s… true,” Annie admits, slowly. It’s a fact, not a feeling. “Right? Even without…”

She looks at her wrist, the broken Timer, the dashes blank. It’s so easy to forget about it, unless her skin itches, and Annie can’t help but scratch until her nail comes into contact with the material. The stupid thing doesn’t even tell the time.

“You never wanted a soulmate,” Finnick points out, and Annie doesn’t understand what that has to do with anything.

“Yeah, I mean, look at my parents,” Annie says, thinking about the scar the Timer left behind on her father’s wrist, the unmarred wrists her mother has. “They’re not soulmates, but they’re happy. They made the choice to be happy together.”

“Do you ever think about them being happier with other people?” Finnick asks, and at her glare, he hastily adds, “With their soulmates, that is.”

“No. Why would I?” Annie says, not expecting his response to be like that. Not even Coral asked that, and now Annie can’t help but be defensive. “They’re happy together, and that’s all the reason I need. Besides, the fact that they’re, you know,  _my parents.”_

“Right,” Finnick says, instantly looking apologetic, like he’s realized that he’s fucked up. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that. I just meant —”

“See,  _that_ is what I don’t like about soulmates and Timers,” Annie huffs, hands waving, not caring about what Finnick _meant_ , cutting him off without a second thought. “The  _expectation._  The fact that other people are telling you,  _this is it, that person’s the one._ Leave that person who you’ve had a meaningful relationship with for the past ten years, fuck ‘em, it’s  _all about_  this stranger who knows nothing about you. This stranger, the possible love of your life, that’s the person you ought to keep around. _”_

Why do people _want_ a device to tell them that, instead of making the decision for themselves?

“What if they’re a shitty person? What if they die the next day? Are you going to stick around and fixate on ‘what might have been’s just because the Timer told you they’re  _it,_ ” Annie says, sardonic, as she makes herself comfortable on the floor. “What if you find your soulmate and all you feel is disappointment? What if one of you has an affair, despite the whole ‘meant to be’ shit?”

There are a million things that could go wrong, even though Annie  _has_  known people where it’s worked out, and there’s no one more perfect for them. Happy endings do exist for some soulmates, no matter if they remain platonic or romantic.

“I mean,” Annie sighs, abating her stance, as she takes the time to settle her thoughts, to think cohesively. “If it works for them, then great. If two soulmates fall in love, then that’s great. But there are other types of love, Finnick, and I refuse to believe that a soulmate means that… we have to fall in love."

It sounds so boring to her, and she’s tried to explain this Coral so many times, that that’s the way it had to be. There’s no freedom in it.

 

 

Her heart still aches for Neptune, it always will.

Even if Finnick stopped gadding to the Capitol to find a new lover, she’s not sure she could fall in love with him anyway.

 

 

Annie taps at the Timer, her legs crossed. Wouldn’t it be nice if she could just peel it away? Like a trick, like a deflect. 

“It was easier, before, to think like that. I didn’t have to care, since I didn’t have a soulmate,” Annie admits, fiddling her hands. “Even if I _did_ get a soulmate, it never even crossed my mind that it would be you, you know?”

“Disappointed?” Finnick asks, soft, trying to hit the note of being jovial and barely scraping by.

 _You could do a lot worse than the Great Finnick Odair_ , Annie recalls, and thinks that maybe the sentiment is the same, only the script has been rewritten.

“… eh,” Annie says, and only partially succeeds in making him smile, ducking his head like he’s trying to hide the rest of his grin. “It really wasn’t something I thought about, Finnick. I really wasn’t interested.”

“How do you feel about it now?” Finnick asks, cautious yet curious.

“Sure? It’s… nice that you can understand what the Games are like?” Annie says, without much thought in it. 

He snorts at that, and then tries to hide his laughter by his hand over his mouth, only his shoulders are shaking, and he can’t look at her.

 _“What?”_ Annie asks, surprised at his reaction. What did she say that was so funny?

“Nope,” Finnick says, biting down a smile. “Not telling.”

“Oh, come  _on,”_  Annie blurts out, impatiently, fingers splayed out aimlessly, in sync with a puff of air heaved from her chest. “You can’t just react like  _that_ and expect me not to —”

“What?”

“— not ask  _why_  you just did that,” Annie finishes, more sullenly than she’d like. Her cheeks flush, embarrassed. “What was so funny?”

“Oh, you were… being you, Annie, I don’t know what I was expecting,” Finnick says. “It just made me think that by that logic, Librae and Ron and Muscida and Mags could be your soulmate too.”

“Did you want flattery?” Annie teases, upturning the ends of her mouth, instead of saying  _well what’s wrong with that?_  “Did you want an ego trip, where I swoon and fawn over the Great Finnick Odair?”

“You don’t even like that guy,” Finnick tilts his head, lips parted, sea green eyes unreadable.

“No,” Annie agrees easily, then modifies her response, “Well, I don’t mind him — you, I mean. He’s alright, you’re…”

He looks  _very_ interested with what she’s about to say.

“… better,” Annie finishes, half-heartedly,  ending with a haphazard drop of her shoulder, still unsure what to make of him, still undecided whether she’s happy with the knowledge that she is his soulmate. It’s confusing.

 _He’s_ confusing.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Finnick beams, before Annie feels inclined to add  _but not by much._

“You do that,” Annie says, dryly, smiling, before she changes the subject. “So what do you think? Do you approve of these books?”

“ _Well,_ ” Finnick drawls out, nice and slow, because lest she forget, Finnick can be over the top and dramatic at the best of times. “They’re not poetry.”

“Is that good or bad?” Annie questions, her tone light.

“Not sure yet,” Finnick teases, trying to be enigmatic, “I’ll have to take you to the library to check.”

And that’s her cue to find the duster and fling it in his general direction.

 

 

“Do you ever go back to Palm Brinks Square?” Annie says, locking the door behind them, exhausted but satisfied.

“Not really,” Finnick shrugs, with his hands in his pockets, beginning to walk. “I run into my old neighbours from time to time, though, and we chat. Catch up on things, as you do. Hell, I even play poker on Wednesdays with some classmates when I’m able.”

“You any good?” Annie asks, absentmindedly thinking about going to the beach where there’s white sand that will stick to her sandals and take ages to get rid of, but it’s such a pretty sight that it’s almost worth it.

“I’m Finnick Odair,” Finnick declares, haughty and arrogant, “What do you think?”

 

 

Sometimes Annie gets approached in the market, to ask her what she meant in her interview with Flickerman, to ask her about the difference between true love and a soulmate. Some people think, believe with all their hearts that it is the same thing, and Annie doesn’t — doesn’t try and convince them otherwise. She isn’t interested in changing people’s minds. It surprises them, she knows, because they look taken aback when she doesn’t argue with them, merely nodding and saying _okay then_. Some people thank her, and she smiles, if sadly. Some people knew about Neptune, and understood, or didn’t.

None of it makes Annie’s grief for Neptune Jones less real.

 

 

Thinking about Jones, gets her thinking about Coral, and the next time they meet up, Annie jumps straight into the topic, as they hang out by the piers and watch the ships go by.

“So what happened to James?” Annie asks, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Did you ever see him again?”

“Once,” Coral admits, mouth pressed into a thin and unhappy line. “It was about a month ago, and… we talked.”

“How’d it go?” Annie peers at Coral, trying to find the answer in the way Coral’s shoulders tighten, discomfort like a knot in her belly.

“Okay, I think. I kept trying to — get past it, and  _accept_  that he was my soulmate. I’ve had months to come to terms with it. Finding my soulmate, that was everything I ever wanted, to fall in love with mine and…” Coral wipes her mouth; lips parted as she sighs, shaking her head. She has none of the hope and excitement that she used to have when she imagined her future. “I still feel jilted.”

She should have bought stones, Annie thinks with a note of dismay. Nothing helps a conversation than chucking rocks into water and making estimations how far it’ll plummet like a representation of their dreams.

“I don’t — I keep trying to understand — why  _him?_  I’ve never looked at a guy twice!” Coral snaps, cheeks red with anger. In a softer voice, slightly calmer, she admits. “It’s always been Gwen. Well, there was Ezri, and Maya, too. But, you know what I mean.”

“So why not date Gwen?” Annie suggests, relieved that she can say it so easily. It seems so straight forward and simple to her, it’s something Annie has wanted to say for a long time, but knowing that Coral wouldn’t ever consider it until now.

“Because she’s not my soulmate, Annie,” Coral says, and Annie can’t repress a frustrated sigh, that old circular argument. “And Gwen — Gwen doesn’t know _who_  her soulmate is!”

“Do you think that she’s going to find out?” Annie asks, reasonably. There’s no Timer on Gwen’s wrist, that much Annie knows, even if that could change in the future and Gwen might eventually seek her soulmate out. “Do you honestly see yourself with James by… I don’t know… a week or so?”

“No,” Coral mutters, “but what if I end up with him in five years anyway?”

“Oh, jeez,” Annie says, not impressed by her best friend’s response. This has always been Coral’s problem, Annie thinks, especially when she looks to the future and believing that the bond between her and her soulmate would be  _inevitably_ romantic. “Just focus on the present, okay? Who do you want to be with, right now? All the people that you liked but didn’t want to say because of the complication of having a soulmate who isn’t them — who is the one person that you want to be with, come rain or shine, as of this moment?”

“Gwen,” Coral admits, mumbling like she’s ashamed of her secret truth. It’s not something Coral has been particularly subtle about hiding. “But what if she doesn’t feel the same way?”

“Um,” Annie blanks, and takes a stab in the dark, because this is classmate politics and gossip mills at the Academy all over again. “Then you cross that bridge when you get there.”

“Fine,” Coral huffs, refusing to talk to Annie for a couple of minutes. 

Annie waits it out.

“I didn’t expect it to be like this,” Coral says, miserable, flaxen tresses overshadowing her face. 

“No,” Annie nods, and she feels like she’s a year younger, watching Coral howl, fresh from the horror of the shock, “Me either.”

Her feet dangle, held above the water.

All the excitement Coral might have had —  _wanted_  — for Annie is gone.

“You found him.” 

It’s almost considerate, how tentative and restrained and meek is sounds. It makes Annie sad — Coral must have known on some level, seen her interview with Flickerman, talked to Neptune and notice that the Timer on his wrist couldn’t come off, or perhaps she’d seen a scar beneath his trick Timer. Maybe Coral had jumped to the right conclusion at the interview, and realized what Annie was saying, that she might have found her soulmate but it didn’t matter since she had Jones.

 “Yeah,” Annie admits, eventually, swinging her legs back and forth. “Just my luck.”

“Spill it,” Coral says, because despite everything, she’s still curious. Years and years of speculation don’t erase that, even if your own dreams have been destroyed. “I will poke you.”

“Would you believe it, it’s Finnick Odair,” Annie says, flatly, hands raised in a gesture of defeat. No poking is required. She’s known for eleven months, but she’s still pretty puzzled about it, and — she owes it to Teddy, to Coral. She won’t hide it from her friends if asked. “How these damn things worked that one out is beyond me.”

Her thumb catches on the edge of the Timer, and she ignores the sting, like nails bitten down too much.

“Wow,” Coral says, taking a moment to process it. “That’s… some odds you’ve got there.”

“Yeah,” Annie drawls, in that same flat voice. “I know.”

“I wish I’d been there,” Coral says, unable to stop herself from laughing. “Knowing you, I can’t help but think it would be so… anticlimactic.”

“Compared to how you reacted?” Annie says, smirking in good humour. “Yeah. Maybe just a little bit.”

Coral nudges Annie with her shoulder. Laughs. “You did not give a damn, did you?”

“Considering I was going into the Games with very little expectation that I’d be the victor? Yeah, no. There was no point,” Annie shrugs, admitting bluntly. There’s no practicality in prioritizing love in a death match. And Annie had buried her heart in that earthquake, submerged it with water afterwards, to try not to feel like she was dead already, after she’d failed to protect Teddy. “I had to focus on surviving, more than anything else.”

“True,” Coral hums, noncommittal. “Must have been awkward.”

“It was, but it didn’t matter. I had Jones back then. He was all I wanted,” Annie says, quiet, digging her chin into her knees. “He knew about Finnick. Didn’t care a bit.”

“And neither did you,” Coral states, pensive.

“That he was my soulmate? No, still don’t, honestly,” Annie admits, refusing to look at Coral’s face. “But, Finnick’s okay. We’re friends now.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Coral says, intrigued by that comment. “And what’s that like?”

Annie shrugs. “He sometimes refers to himself as the Great Finnick Odair.”

“I have to admit, I didn’t expect that,” Coral blinks.

“Neither did I. But he uses it. A lot,” Annie deadpans, refraining from mentioning it’s not just a title, it’s in the way he moves and looks and directs people’s attention to himself. It’s a strange and scary chameleon transformation that leaves Annie feeling confused, and put out, bothered by the fact that people don’t seem to notice the difference between his two personas. “He also likes the word nefarious.”

“The more you know,” Coral says, with a smile.

There are other things Annie could tell Coral, Annie supposes. Like that Finnick is addicted to coffee, and that he likes libraries, and that he’s trying to convince her that going there will be  _fun_ , or that most of the time Annie feels like she’s on a learning curve with him, watching him be someone else.

She can’t tell whether Finnick is trying to be something more or something less, but there are still days when Finnick pulls off his vanishing act and Annie doesn’t know whether he’s at the Capitol or in hiding.

 

 

The clock keeps ticking, and Annie grows increasingly and uncomfortably aware of the Seventy-First Hunger Games, of how she must play her part like a puppet on strings.

There’s a quiet desperation within her, as she knocks on Librae’s door, desperate for the company of someone who understands, who gets it right away, without having to ask questions.

Librae takes her out to a club, and Annie hates it, but she gets blackout drunk, and when she wakes up with a killer headache, it helps. She feels calmer, like a spinning top, finding balance temporarily, but knowing it’s a matter of time before she loses it once more, and veer wildly out of control.

She goes back to that club the next night.

Annie gets so drunk that she forgets to go the last victors’ dinner the day after that, mumbling her excuses to Mags with her head bent. She’s afraid to look at Mags, at Ron, at Muscida, because they’ve had years and  _years_  of experience and she’s barely reached even one. 

There’s such an impending sense of dread growing in her stomach that Annie can’t ignore, and clams up when Librae asks about it — 

“Let’s get drunk again,” Annie deflects, and Librae looks at her, pausing, before she jerks her chin and nods, accepting however reluctantly.

 

 

“I don’t think I can do it,” Librae pries out of her eventually, holding her hair back while Annie vomits in her old house, over the sink, and she wants to curl up and cry, to smash all the seashell bracelets she’s made over the years because it’s nothing but a  _distraction,_ but instead, Annie’s too weak to even stand, only able to be where she is by leaning on the counter, Librae close at hand, as she tries to rid herself of the last vestiges of self-pity of the day. “To do it year after year after year —”

“All you have to do is stand still, look pretty,” Librae says, understanding that Annie means the reaping. “You don’t have to say a thing.”

“How?” Annie says, grabbing at water with one hand, cleaning her mouth. “How can you _not_ , Librae?”

Year after year, watching children with higher chances than children in other districts, without saying a thing, watching them most likely go to their doom. Annie feels paralyzed by it, the knowledge that the tributes and will go what she went through, and only one of them will even come back.

It’s a different feeling before she was a victor, when she spent the days hoping that she wouldn’t be picked.

“Cresta,” Librae says, sharply, and her mind goes back to Teddy, to Neptune, to Snow. “Use your damn head.”

“Yeah,” Annie sighs, dowsing her entire face in water, and feels more awake because of it. “I’ll give that a try.”

 

 

Annie calms down a little after that, much to her parent’s relief.

The trade-off is bad dreams or not sleeping at all, and with greater frequency of recalling Snow’s advice. His words rumble in her mind, like lighting sounding in the distance, an oncoming storm that Annie can’t escape. The more she tries to ignore it, the louder it becomes.

_The Capitol expects to see a mad girl, Miss Cresta. You would do well not to disappoint._

 

 

She has a breakdown in the shower, one week before she has to stand on the stage, the weight too much. She’s never told anyone that the cold water of District Four felt wrong, wrong, wrong ever since she got back. 

It hits her skin wrong, the temperature is wrong,  the texture is wrong, and Annie gasps, trying to breathe, and shrink and shy away from the Capitol, pressing her back against the tiles, trying to hold onto the present, use her head like Librae says, and survive the aftermath, the onslaught of fear that leaves her shaking.

Annie buries her head in her hands, and hopes that the sound of the water hitting the tiles is enough to muffle her sobs.

(It isn’t.)

 

 

How does a mad girl act?

How did she act before?

 

 

“How about I take you somewhere nice,” Finnick says, hand outstretched, waiting for her to take it.

“Let me guess,” Annie deadpans, staring at it instead, and feeling more a like a being a coffee than an actual person at this point, “The library?”

Finnick gasps theatrically. “Nothing so  _nefarious_ , Annie. Who do you think I am?”

She’s too tired, too wired to even answer that one.

“I hate you,” Annie says, eventually, not meaning it even a little bit.

“I know,” Finnick grins, impish. His hand is still out, waiting for her to take it. “What I was actually going to suggest was going on a fishing trip.”

“On that tiny white boat of yours?” Annie asks, distinctly getting the feeling that only one person could fit on it.

“It’s not _that_ tiny,” Finnick says, and later Annie will blame the fact that she’s out of her goddamn mind and thinking of a million other things because she didn’t take the chance up to make his tiny boat a euphemism.

She lifts her eyebrow instead, suspicious.

“Sure, Finnick,” Annie says, placating, full of disbelief.

“ _Annie_ ,” Finnick says, stressing the syllables in her name like she’s just said something scandalous. “Just for that, we’re going fishing, you and me, right now.”

“I’m the daughter of a fisherman, Finn,” Annie says, as Finnick takes her hand and guides her to the beach where he keeps his boat. “You think I don’t know a few fishing tricks?”

“Yeah, well, I’m Finnick Odair!”

 

 

The sun is golden in the sky, so bright that Annie feels dazed just by standing there, while Finnick is ankle deep in the sea.

“Come on in,” he says, tapping this white boat expectantly. “The water’s lovely.”

She used to stare at the sea and want to drown. She dreamed about it, her head submerged in the water, her hair splayed out by the current, her last thought the faces of all that she loved. She would close her eyes and see the red, red, red blood spread out and seep into her skin, knife in hand, knowing that it’s not hers. She’d had so many nightmares, screaming, desperate to throw herself into a shower, scrubbing away the caked blood, imagined or perceived otherwise.

She’s spent so long staring at the sea, reliving moments, that when she actually steps into the sea, her feet bare, shoes tossed into the boat, she can’t help but marvel at the affection she still has for the salt water, affection she long thought she’d forgotten.

There’s salt in the air, in the breeze, in her hands, and that makes all the difference.

“Yeah,” Annie grins, her smile small, finding herself missing the touch of the sea, “It is.”

“Alright then,” Finnick grins from ear to ear, like she’s said exactly what he wanted to hear, before he pushes them out to sea. “Climb aboard.”

 

 

She forgot how calming the sea can be.

She’s had so many memories of lying on her father’s lap and staring at the sky that it becomes instinctive to just relax as the boat gently rocks back and forth like a cradle. Whenever she’d become upset, Zeke used to take her out to sea, and it would clear her mind, and she’d reach out to touch the water, pretending that she missed by seconds to stroke fish that scuttled away so quickly. 

And when they came back to the shore, Annie finds that she can breathe a little easier now.

 

 

Another habit Annie used to have — that she forgets until she remembers — is that she used to trace the scars on her father’s wrist with her thumb. 

“Did it hurt?” Annie asks, musing about the scars she used to have. Scars don’t make a person ugly, she believes, they’re a marker of history, a reminder of what happened, contributed in making him the person he is today.

She wants them back. Her markers, her reminders, that scar on her ankle and nicks on her fingertips for the moments she mishandled a knife.

“Only a little,” Zeke tells her, watching her with a crooked smile, “You’ve thought about this?”

“For a while,” Annie confirms, nodding. “Yeah.”

“You know what they say, there’s no going back,” Zeke says, almost like a recitation. Maybe that’s what the person from District Three said, one last warning because there was still time to change their mind.

“I know,” Annie sucks air through her teeth, steadying her shoulders. There’s an itch underneath her Timer, so insistent to be removed so she can just scratch the spot. “Worked out pretty well for you though, Dad.”

“What can I say? I was lucky,” Zeke grins, modest yet pleased. He’s earned more scars by being clumsy with fish hooks than he has by a device on his wrist that he was too impatient to wait for. “On three, then?”

“On three,” Annie agrees, holding her wrist out.

Her mother is right: Zeke Cresta can’t lie for shit.

 

 

“Huh,” Coral says, the second she notices, the sea shell bracelets Annie wears aren’t pretty enough to cast shadows and cover the scar. “That’s… new.”

“Yeah,” Annie shrugs, hoping that it won’t be a big deal. “I guess it runs in the family.”

“Does Finnick know?” Coral asks, more curious than judgemental, holding up Annie’s arm and examining her wrist up close.

“Does it matter?” Annie sighs, hoping that were still going to get drunk tonight. 

This wasn’t about Finnick, this was about  _Annie_ , and choosing to discard yet another hold that the Capitol held on her, because they thought it was romantic and destined and for their entertainment and every other thing that made her feel sick to her stomach.

“No,” Coral says, considering, as she stares at the new scar, almost entranced, “I guess not.”

“I was always going to have taken it off eventually,” Annie says, and Coral inclines her head in agreement. “You know that right?”

“Yeah,” Coral nods, “I think the question was  _when.”_

“You placed bets, didn’t you?” Annie smiles, smirking.

“Maybe,” Coral says, meaning  _of course I did._

Coral won’t do the same, Annie knows, as much as she loves her. Coral likes the numbers at zero, likes the idea that she has a soulmate too much even if she doesn’t particularly care for him to tear the Timer from her wrist. It’s enough, perhaps, to know that her soulmate James is alive.

“Well then,” Annie says, nudging at her best friend, “I think we ought to get drunk tonight.”

“About damn time,” Coral grins, eager to get going.

 

 

She’s waiting for the bartender to serve her drinks, when Annie notices Aaron Newt. She hasn’t seen him since Neptune’s funeral.

“I —” Annie opens her mouth and then closes it. Tries again. “How have you been, Newt?”

He shrugs, scruffy collared and a five o’clock shadow on his face. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. “Like shit.”

“Same,” Annie sighs; chin digging into her chest before she flicks her gaze to where Coral is. It takes less than a second to decide. “You want to join us?”

“Yeah, I could use the company,” Newt nods, awkward with his hands as he shrugs, and they wait for his drink too. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Annie smiles, and they make do with small talk as they head back to Coral. “Look who I found!”

“Hey, Newt,” Coral says. “Grab a seat.”

Newt pulls up a chair and all but collapses onto it. “I’m not ready for tomorrow.”

“At least we’re free,” Coral points out, Annie silently adding  _speak for yourself._  “It’s not our necks on the line anymore.”

“Great,” Newt says, barking out a laugh, bitter like his drink. “I’ll toast to that.”

 

 

“Where are you staying these days?” Annie finds herself asking as they leave the bar, her arm around his shoulder. 

He’d mentioned it earlier, back when they said goodnight to Coral, but she can’t remember. In the state she’s in, Annie doesn’t think she’ll be able to walk back to Victor’s Village, or her old house, her head spinning.

“Wolfwood Avenue,” Newt says, and it means nothing to her, she can’t pinpoint that location on her whiskey soaked mind map. “S’nice. Nice apartment, not too far away.”

“Oh,” Annie says, stumbling as Newt holds her by the waist, and together they set off. “Good.”

 

 

“I’m sorry,” Annie says, and she must have said a thousand apologies at the funeral, the words leaking out of her like tears. She remembers an afternoon spent with Neptune’s parents, full of self-loathing.

“Hey, hey, no,” Newt says, attempted a one armed hug as he manages to jimmy the door open. “C’mere.”

“I miss him,” Annie sobs into his chest, getting his rumpled shirt stained, and nothing feels quite right. Miss, she thinks, breath hitching, not  _missed_.

“He was my friend too,” Newt says, quiet, his arms settling around her back, his hands warm and slender.

“I wish you hated me,” Annie admits, soft, her words slurred. It had felt that way, sometimes, when she was in her worse moods. It felt right that she should be hated by everyone who knew her.

Newt though, she’d never been quiet able to understand, a little too quiet and reticent for her tastes. But he was Neptune’s best friend, and in turn, he’d become Annie’s too.

“No, you don’t,” Newt said, meaning  _I’m all you got left of him._ She can see the words like freckles on his face, and she reaches out to touch them, brush them away on the curve of her cheek with her thumb. His mouth parts, a feather light touch on the palm of her hand, his slender fingers curled around her wrist, keeping her in place. "I don’t, Annie.”

"Yeah, well. Tomorrow’s another day,” Annie mumbles, seconds before she tastes the beer he drank. Newt licks into her mouth, and Annie is clutching at his crumpled collar instead of pulling away, desperate for — desperate for something she doesn’t want to name.

Lust flares in her stomach, lower, everywhere and like a faraway thunderstorm, Annie hears the door slam behind them, feels her back press into it, Newt’s body flush against hers. 

His hands are roaming, his mouth on her neck, and Annie is insistent, tugging at his shirt for better access, uncaring as the buttons skitter off his shirt.

She doesn’t care what the morning brings; she tells herself, wrapping her legs around him, and Newt pushes up her skirt.

Her underwear is left hanging on one ankle, and it’s too late even think about that detail, Annie knows, arching into his touch, her hands scrabbling at his back.

Newt moves rhythmically against her, and Annie digs her fingers into his skin, pulling at his hair, his breath hot against her ear. His hips roll into hers, harder each time, and she moans.

She’s never —

Annie’s never —

She shudders and whimpers and tries to muffle the sounds she makes by biting his shoulder. Her thoughts are long gone, exploding into nothing, and her awareness shrinks down to nothing but Newt grasping at her.

 

 

She wakes up in his bed alone, and tries to convince herself that she feels nothing at all before she has to throw up.


	11. Sphallolalia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sphallolalia - Flirtatious talk that leads no where.

On the day of the reaping, Finnick wakes up, takes his boat to the sea and catches the sunrise.

It’s like clockwork: every six months, every time he has to leave, he wakes with a jerk, heart racing, trying to catch his breath. There’s an impulse that exists inside of him: too strong, too quick, too immediate, that no amount of counting to ten or wringing rope into nooses and knots can ease his nerves.

So he goes to the sea, because most days that’s a failsafe. He always leaves the sea with a calmer piece of mind, feeling like he’s more in control than before, awake with a clearer perspective.

Before the cameras that worship each crooked smirk, adore each sultry glance, panning lovingly over his body appears, and he feels dirty for delivering what everyone wants to see.

After the sunrise, he closes his eyes and exhales, pushing all the air out of his lungs and focuses. The cry of seagulls surrounds him and sound so far away.

He feels untouchable here, almost alone in the wide blue sea.

Almost.

It’s still the best part of his day.

 

 

“Oi,  _Odair!”_ Librae calls, her voice abruptly shaking him from his fragile tranquillity. “Hurry the fuck up and get over here already!”

“Hey, now,” Muscida says, to Librae, more than Finnick. His voice is fairly loud, and getting louder. To Finnick, Muscida says, “You can have a few more minutes, if you like.”

“Thanks!” Finnick shouts back, grabbing the oars and rowing back. “Are you going to offer me breakfast next?”

For a moment, Muscida considers it, answering him only after a pause.

“You should eat!”

“Selkirk can’t cook, Finnick, you know that,” Librae declares, in a flat voice, glancing at Muscida with a disappointed shake of her head.

“I wouldn’t touch  _your_  cooking with a spoon either, Librae,” Finnick jibes playfully, unable to help himself from making one quick remark.

“You didn’t complain last week,” Libra hisses, cupping her hands over her mouth and crows. “Row faster before you fucking keel over, Finn!”

“I think I’ll take my chances and leisurely enjoy the view, thanks,” Finnick sticks his tongue out instead. He rather enjoys the view, and Muscida is right, there is plenty of time. He has another idea. “If you’re so worried about me, Librae, why don’t  _you_  swim over and row the boat instead?”

“What a good idea!” Librae drawls, heavy on the sarcasm, rolling her eyes. “And then, I can make the boat  _capsize_.”

She blinks.

“Wait, no —” Finnick mutters, witnessing the idea spark to life. His eyes widen as he watches Librae dive into the water, kick her legs, and swim. Towards him.  _“Fuck.”_

He didn’t actually expect her to do it.

“Don’t you fucking  _dare_ —” Finnick hollers, standing up and —

In retrospect, he’s willing to admit that it might have been more his fault than hers. But she’s laughing, even though they’re both drenched now, climbing the boat, and calling him  _idiot_  in several different ways.

Just for that, Librae  _does_  end up rowing the boat, Finnick content to pass the oars over, even though Librae snatching them is a much more apt description and begins to row in a much brisker pace than Finnick is used to.

Muscida, blissfully dry and waiting for them on the pier, is mildly exasperated at both of them, but mostly amused nevertheless.

“How old are you two again?” Muscida asks, glancing at both of them with bafflement, just shy of chuckling at them from their antics.

“Can it,” Librae mutters, her face bright red.

“I can’t believe you swam,” Finnick says, pulling his shirt off and wringing it. He doesn’t have to look at his reflection to know that he looks gorgeous. He’s been blessed by water so many times that he makes looking like a water rat beautiful.

“Believe it or not, Odair, it’s not actually that difficult,” Librae snaps back, glowering, her hair dark and sprightly back into curls. “I mean, look at you!”

“I know,” Finnick agrees, entirely too smug too early in the morning for Librae’s tastes. “I'm pretty great myself.”

He can see out of the corner of his eye that her glower intensifies.

Muscida sighs.

 

 

“Have you guys seen Annie?” Ron asks, staring at them with a crease between his brows, meeting them at the entrance of Victor’s Village. He stops in his tracks, inspecting them with an unimpressed face. “Do I want to know?”

“Funny story,” Muscida says, dry to the bone.

Librae shoots him a poisonous glare. “You could have stopped me.”

“I think we both know that’s a lie,” Finnick whispers, like they’re on a stage.

Librae grunts, a frustrated noise that sounds an awful lot like an incomprehensible profanity.

Muscida clears his throat. “You were saying something about Annie?”

“She’s not at home,” Ron says, his mouth set into a worried line, his features refined into a grumpy frown that is most definitely his consternated face. “Since it’s her first reaping as a victor, I wanted to be sure that she’s doing alright.”

Finnick thinks back, recalling that he’s seen her spend her time with Librae much more frequently as of late. Turning to face her, he asks, “Librae, when’s the last time you saw Annie?”

“At a bar. Said something about wanting to spend time with her friends,” Librae says, teeth worrying her lip. She nods with certainty. “Look, Finn, I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

She sounds less certain, at that.

It goes unspoken that this is the newest victor they’re talking about, and no one knows how she’s going to react when she stands on that stage for the first time, and many times after that.

“Go change, guys, we’ll wait,” Ron says, authority easily replacing the worry in his tone. Muscida adding, besides him, and directing his gaze to Finnick pointedly, “And make sure to eat something.”

Of course, Aunt Maria is no stranger to Finnick's morning routines.

 

 

Mags finds her. More accurately: Mags turns up with Annie, one hand gripped to her cane, the other holding Annie’s.

Annie, who is still and quiet and pale, and does her best to be invisible. Still, Finnick can’t help but notice her, drawn to her downcast expression, like a small ripples in water.

The procession starts, and there’s no time to speak to her, and so Finnick turns away.

Theo picks the girl first, smoothing the paper in his manicured hands and waiting a moment before crisply calling the name of Patricia Malvers. She looks too young, thirteen at most, without a ghost of a chance. Before Patricia even makes her way to the stage, another girl is demanding to be heard, yelling from the top of her lungs that she’ll volunteer. Liv Nobly is her name, sixteen years of age, with a fighting chance. She looks entirely too terrified, but her jaw is set, and Finnick admires her for that.

Samuel Sanderson is the name of the male tribute that Theo calls out in a punctuated voice. A youth of seventeen. Blue eyes, bright yellow hair that reminds Finnick of honey. Sanderson stands ramrod straight, like he’s arrogant to a fault, and Finnick can’t help but muse about how much of it is a performance or his actual personality. Like calls to like.

“They’re going to die,” Finnick hears behind him — Annie’s voice — clearly terrified, insistent —

Finnick very consciously does not turn to look at her. He is like marble. He will not turn.

The hairs on of the back of his neck are prickling, and he can tell that he won’t like what will happen next, whatever it is.

Annie is mumbling to Mags, to Ron, to anyone that is willing to listen to her, which is no one, which is the cameras —

“They’re both —“

 _Shut up,_  Finnick thinks viciously, nails digging into the meat of his palm, teeth sinking into his tongue. He forces himself to stare at the audience, the citizens of District Four, who are damned either way the odds fall, in their favour or not. He keeps his face calm and composed, refusing to register the faces of District Four who were once children, or still are, and hoped they haven’t doomed their loved ones to die, this year, the next year, the year after that. He draws no blood.  _We know._

“Davy Jones —” Finnick hears Annie shouts, screams, and Finnick tenses in less than a second. That’s a name no one talks about but everyone knows.

This can’t be good.

“Davy Jones will keep your names,” Annie shrieks, and it sounds like a curse, it sounds like _she’s_ cursing them, it sounds like she’s been cursed through and through. But she doesn’t stop there, oh no. Everyone’s too shocked to stop her and the cameras watch her greedily, taking in her every move. She continues. “And it won’t be enough! He’ll open the door to his locker, and won’t let go of the things you left behind!”

Annie wanders past them, wild eyed, unseeing. Her hair streams past her shoulders, unkempt, a waterfall where her shoulders are messy rocks peeking at the edge, and the water is twisting, twisting, twisting as she shakes.

She wasn’t like this five minutes ago, Finnick thinks to himself, desperately. He hadn’t dared to look back then.

In the eyes of the Capitol, it is such a terribly unbefitting way for a victor to act.

Smile. Look pretty. Stay silent. That’s all you had to do on this stage. Feigning boredom was optional.

The two tributes are staring at her silently, gawping.

 _Grateful_ , Finnick can’t help but think, tasting bitterness in his mouth. There’s more attention on Annie than there is for the hooked worms.

Oblivious, Annie continues, her body trembling as she speaks. The camera drinks her in, relishing each moment.

Her eyes are wide, a storm blazing, and Finnick is not entirely certain if she was the same person she was moments ago.

“— takes and he takes and he takes, and you try to find it, the waterlogged passage ways, the sinking ship, the more you try to retrace your footsteps, the more you realize you don’t come back. You won’t. There’s no breathing space there. Here. Anywhere. You can’t. We’re still looking, all of us, and none of us have ever come back —”

 _“Annie,”_ Ron says, voice tight, placing his hand gently on his shoulders, and Annie continues without acknowledging him. Then she stops, making a face of — disappointment, Finnick guesses, fleetingly, maybe not — her cheeks puff out and her hand isn’t enough, scrabbling to reach her mouth and without any dignity, she throws up.

Spittle on her mouth. Slow, sluggish hands that clumsily wipe it away. It’s like watching a disaster that never ends, and the camera is basking in it, savouring every moment because it is a reminder to the Capitol, to Panem, that Annie Cresta is mad, and that she will always be mad.

Year after year after year.

Finnick feels sick, watching Annie being dragged away by Ron. Annie is howling.

 

 

“Fucking  _hell,_  Cresta,” Librae says, hands steepled, after Annie is cleaned up, given a new set of clothes to wear, her hair brushed. They’re all gathered in a room of the Justice Building. “What the _fuck_ was _that_? I said  _use your head._  I said —”

“I was,” Annie mumbles, her gaze fixed firmly at the tea that Mags gave her. She speaks softly, a slight rasp in her voice. She’s lost that air of desperation. “I was trying to figure it out —”

“What?” Librae scoffs, full of derision, “What were you  _possibly_  trying to figure out?”

“How to be mad,” Annie says, barely audible, refusing to look at them. It’s not like after she woke up from her deep sleep, recovered in body but not in mind, where she looked haunted and convinced of her failure. Here, she looks defiant, determined, no longer like a hunted animal. “How to help them, if they came back.”

“You are mad,” Librae spits, twisting her mouth into an unpleasant scowl.

“Using Davy fucking Jones,” Finnick sighs, only half-understanding what Annie is — was trying to say back then, trying to untangle the words. He runs his hands through his hair, trying to think of something to say. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

He doubts anyone outside of District Four will understand what she meant by that. He doubts anyone except being a victor will understand what she meant by the rest.

What Annie has certainly done is solidify her status as the mad victor. What could have possibly made her do that?

When Finnick looks at her again, Annie looks awfully tired. Did she even sleep last night?

“Annie,” Ron says, urgently, crouching down so that their eyes are level when Annie looks at him. Finnick recognises that expression, of the girl who broke the dam a year ago and knew that she would lose. It’s the same expression Annie wears now, bright and sharp and fierce.

“I made a deal with Snow,” Annie admits, tucking her hair behind her ear. “If I acted like a mad girl, I would never have to go back.”

“Shit,” Librae whistles, “Well, you sure fooled me.”

Finnick quietly counts to ten.

“Well,” Muscida says, arms folded as he leans on the wall, knitting his brows, pausing, “you’ve certainly accomplished that.”

“I wish you told us,” Mags says, softly, her voice soothing, and Finnick closes his eyes, listens to her speak, trying just to breathe. “We could have helped.”

“How?” Annie says, her voice less than a whisper.

“By being there for you, darling,” Mags says, and Finnick hears the gasp, the hitch of air, has to open his eyes then and sees Annie blinking furiously, a glimmer of tears appearing like candlelit ships on a midnight sea.

Annie swallows, eventually speaking, nuanced with iron, “I’m sorry, I just didn’t know if could —”

“Snow does that. He plays a different game with each of us,” Finnick says, shoulders tensing as he speaks, and refuses to elaborate. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, as he avoids their gazes. This is not about him. This is about Annie understanding that they understand the situation now.

This is about Annie understanding that she will never be alone.

Annie relaxes, the relief almost palpable.

“Speaking of Snow, he called earlier. Said that we don’t need to bring all six victors to the Hunger Games,” Mags says, taking control of the meeting at hand, and all of them fall quiet, waiting with baited breath. “However we decide who goes, Annie, you’re not going back to the Capitol this year.”

“Wait, like the other Career Districts?” Librae queries, tilting her gaze. She stares at Mags, incredulous. “We’ve finally reached that point?”

Sometimes Caesar Flickerman got sick of the sight of seeing so many victors on his stage. So Claudius Templesmith proposed a solution, and Snow agreed, so only the Career Districts knew about it, since they have the largest amount of victors. If a tribute from a Career District won, then the following year, half the victors from that district could remain in Victor’s Village and watch from there. The year after that, if the victor was from a different district, all of them had to had to return, be it to talk to sponsors or be mentors or be a general nuisance.

All in the interest of giving other districts a fighting chance, of course.

Finnick knows that Gloss and Cashmere are still fist bump each other whenever someone mentions it. No, wait, even better: they have a  _special handshake._

“Yes,” Mags confirms, her gaze flickering to Finnick, a thousand words on her face. Finnick nods, acknowledging her. “Three of us stay, three of us go.”

“Okay,” Ron says, heaving a heavy huff of air. “How are we doing this?”

Things would be easier, Finnick suspects, if they’d all be informed of these decisions earlier and had time to prepare.

“Straws?” Muscida suggests, just as Librae offers, “Coins?”

“You could always do Rock, Paper, Scissors.”

“We’re not going to play Rock, Paper, Scissors, Stafford,” Librae says, scathing, hands held up in adamant protest. “We’re just _not_.”

They end up playing Rock, Paper, Scissors.

 

 

“I bet Districts One and Two don’t play Rock, Paper, Scissors,” Librae mutters, grouchily, as they walk back to Victor’s Village. Muscida and Ron and Mags have stayed to talk to the parents, to promise them that they’ll do their best, but they can only take them so far.

Tomorrow, they’ll make their way to the train station.

“Yeah, well,” Finnick nudges her shoulder with his, “You can ask Gloss and Cash when you find them.”

“Enjoy this while you can,” Librae elbows him, good-naturedly, retaliating, “You’ll be there next year, and I’ll be sure to making a nice strawberry sundae before we go. And I won’t be sharing.”

He raises his eyebrow, teasing, “You can make one of those now?”

“Shut up,” Librae snorts, biting back a smirk, “I got better.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Finnick lightly remarks, and that’s the last straw, it seems, Librae shoving him away.

“When we get back, Odair,” Librae backhands a wave, marching at a brisker pace. “Until then, fuck off.”

“Whatever,” Finnick mumbles, letting Librae be. He turns his attention to another matter, gently matching his pace to meet hers. “Hey, Annie, do you have a moment?”

“Sure,” Annie nods, trying to suppress a yawn, “Can it be quick?”

“Just wanted to make sure how you’re doing,” Finnick says, cautious, hands in his pockets. It helps, he thinks, asking this question outside the Justice Building, where old memories of being  _that_  tribute, scared, alone, innocent —

“Oh,” Annie says, pausing, and he waits for her to come to answer. After a while, she says, “I’m tired, but I guess I could use a coffee.”

“I know just the place,” Finnick says, offering his arm.

“Amalia’s?” Annie says with a grin, and  _this_  is the Annie that he recognizes, knows and cherishes. “Surely even she closes her stall sometime?”

“Second best place,” Finnick amends, smiling back as Annie nods and takes his arm, lets him direct her, “’S nice and quiet.”

 

 

“The library,” Annie sighs, looking sad and disappointed in him. He’d go so far to describe Annie as disapproving. She would make an excellent Librarian, Finnick thinks, not for the first time. “That’s  _low_.Even for you. That is _low_ , Finnick Odair.”

Annie’s never used his full name like that before.

“Not quite, Annie, this is the library’s  _cafe_ ,” Finnick lifts a finger, waggles it at her, hoping that the gesture is silly enough to work either for her to break a smile, or roll her eyes. One of the two, and Finnick has a fairly good bet on which one it’s going to be.

Annie rolls her eyes. “Now that — that’s  _nefarious.”_

He beams a winning smile. “I have never said that I wasn’t.”

He looks at her and she smiles back, albeit begrudgingly, small but there. All the same, he adds, “Drinks on me.”

“They’d better be,” Annie mutters, glaring at him one last time before she tells him how she likes her coffee and finds a place to sit. 

Any will do, since the library cafe is blank at the best of times, but Jake is there anyway, with his freckles and curly hair that refuses to be tamed, and makes a good batch of coffee that Finnick has come to rely on over the years. Especially when he knows that Amalia’s stall is too far away and he’ll burn out before he reaches her.

Still, Annie chooses the back of the room, the corner furthest away from the window, her cheek resting on her hand, hiding her mouth. It doesn’t matter, he can see the frown, feel it radiate from miles away.

“It gets easier,” Finnick says, handing over Annie’s coffee cup. “You stop…”

“What?” Annie says, raising her coffee with both hands. “Caring? Trying to get attached to them?”

“… seeing yourself as them,” Finnick says instead, fingers wrapped around his own cup of coffee, not yet taking a drink. “It’s just like before, only, you’re standing on the opposite stage.”

Sometimes they’re not the same age you were. Sometimes they are.

People you care about still die. Even if the odds are in your favour.

The only difference is this time you’ve experienced it, you know what they’re going to go through.

“You can’t volunteer,” Annie points out, her voice despondent.

“No,” Finnick agrees, carefully deciding not to spit out a callous  _would you want to?_

Nobody wants the Games. But they happen all the same. And victors that reach the Capitol get the best seats.

He asks again, softly, “How are you doing?”

“You really have to ask?” Annie says, scowling. A flare of anger instead of annoyance.

He raises his hands in a gesture of defeat. He shrugs, keeping his voice gentle. “Worth a shot.”

Finnick very carefully doesn’t mention that this is what the other victors did, taking the time to make sure that he was okay, to check how he was feeling. If it was too much, or if he could curl his lips with the gleam of a crocodile for a few seconds longer.

“… like shit,” Annie confesses through her fingers, burying her head in her hands. “But go ahead. Tell me it’ll be a cinch.”

“You know that’s bullshit, Annie,” Finnick drawls, and Annie snorts, both ignoring the note of hysteria.

“Yeah, I know. But…”

“… you wanted to hear it anyway, just so you could shoot it down,” Finnick guesses, correctly, and she nods, a small dip of her head.

“Yeah,” Annie says. “Pretty much.”

“It gets easier,” Finnick says, and it’s only a little bit of a lie. Your skin gets tougher. You learn to get less attached, but never completely. You learn to react less, on stage, when you see a kid that will no doubt break their love ones’ heart. You learn to have a face of stone. “You just — tell yourself that you have to get through it. Tell yourself that Mags and Ron and Muscida and Librae have done it for far longer. If they can do it, so can you.”

“You ever ask them how?” Annie asks, steel lined in her voice.

Finnick only smiles. Each victor has a different answer to that.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Finnick says instead. He doesn’t think he ever could.

“I know. It was terrifying. I didn’t know if I’d be convincing at all,” Annie says, sombrely. “We Crestas can’t lie for shit, you know?”

He didn’t know that.

“Oh, you were convincing, No doubt about it,” Finnick states, thinking back to her interview as well. She’s a wild card, and he doesn’t know what to make of that. “You had us all worried there for a good while there. Librae isn’t normally _that_ angry unless she has a good reason to be.”

“Oh,” Annie says, shrinking. “I didn’t…”

“It’s fine. She’ll get over it,” Finnick shrugs, tells himself that in the long run, so will he. He won’t feel shaken by it, give or take a few days. “A warning would have been nice, though.”

He changes topic.

“Can I see?” Finnick asks, careful, wondering if he’s treading on dangerous ground now. If it’s meant to be awkward territory. “Your wrist, I mean.”

Wordlessly, Annie removes the bracelet, barely glancing at the scar, and shows her scarred wrist, silent the entire time, her face carved out of marble.

 _Like that_ , he wants to say, but can’t.  _You’re supposed to be like that on stage._

He thinks of that night when he scratched his wrist raw, thin pale lines that were gone by morning, then the blood that dripped and the morphling injected in his bloodstream, and then the Capitol erased the injury in what felt like seconds, knitting the skin together so easily.

“When?” His voice is quieter than he means it to be. He feels —

“A week ago,” Annie answers, and his mind flashes back to the sun in the sky, the blood in the water, the lines scratched across his wrist. “Give or take a few days.”

He didn’t know.

He didn’t notice until the Justice Building.

He feels —

“What,” Annie says, and Finnick can hear the fury being restrained in her voice, a careful controlled and cold gleam in her eyes, poised like a knife. The curl of her mouth twists into something icy. “You can remove your Timer because you were afraid and did it without thinking, but I can’t? Get the fuck over yourself.”

 _Fuck_.

He hadn’t meant to piss her off.

He doesn’t say,  _that’s not what I meant._

He doesn’t say,  _you’re overreacting._

He doesn’t say,  _of course you can._

He says, “Annie —”

“Stop looking at me like that,” Annie snarls, teeth bared before he has the chance to say it aloud, he didn’t even realize his expression was giving him away. 

“Give me a second!” Finnick says, apologizing of sorts, trying to school his expression into something different, something that doesn’t convey (shock, horror, betrayal) whatever she sees on his face.  _“Sorry.”_

When he thinks about it, it’s not so surprising. Not if it’s Annie. But he still feels surprised because —

(He would have kept his Timer, if he wasn’t so scared. If he could, he’d ask to have the Timer on his wrist again. He’d have worn that Timer for the rest of his life.

If he only wasn’t so scared —)

“Did you have any morphling?” Finnick asks, already knowing that the answer is no. He stares and stares and stares at her wrist, at her scars, at the blood that must have been shed.

“I had my dad,” Annie says, sounding calmer, if only slightly, the aura of intensity lessening in increments. “And a fair amount of alcohol, afterwards.”

“Close at hand, I wager,” Finnick can’t help but smile.

“You bet,” Annie smirks, full of pride. “Best. Dad. Ever.”

“Look at that scar,” Finnick says, more to himself than her, a little bit of awe escaping him.

He’s forgotten what it’s like to have a scar. Scars slip away so easily, washed out like sand on skin. Finnick travels to the Capitol so often that they notice every little imperfection and take it away. It’s like water, almost, eroding the scars of his skin, brushing out the sand, and dust his lips with sugar instead, transforming him into something sweet and pretty and rotten inside.

“It’s a real beauty, alright,” Annie says, and Finnick can hear that smile, that pride radiating right through her, as her wrist slides out of his hold so easily.

“It looks good,” Finnick agrees, and takes a sip of his coffee.

 

 

He doesn’t take her to the library that day, but Finnick is delighted to discover that at least Annie likes the coffee there. They spend an hour chatting, about nothing in particular; both of them avoid mentioning the oncoming Games.

That’s another day’s problem, and they’ll deal with it then.

“How am I doing?” Annie asks, when they walk home, and they’re about to part ways. “Really?”

“Good,” Finnick tells her, his hands in his pockets. He stares at her, taking note of the defiance in her face, and sees a fifteen year old boy who only knew how to smile and please someone else by pulling back his lips, and knew nothing in store that was about to happen to him. He sees the haunted look in her eyes, reckons she sees it in his own. “You’re doing just fine, Annie.”

 

 

“See you on the flipside, then?” Finnick says, in the morning while the sky still carries the dregs of dawn.

(Just this once, mind, Mags tells them. Next year, it’s the five of them, like it’s always been. With Annie staying at District Four. Snow called Annie the other day. Congratulated her for her performance, for adapting to the situation required of her magnificently.

It’s not like she’ll be alone. Finnick knows that.)

He embraces Librae, Ron and Muscida, before they go. Mags and Annie do the same.

(”It’s not fucking fair,” Librae says, not caring if it sounds like she’s whining. “Ron and I went on Annie’s tour.”

“You really want to break the sacred rules of Rock, Paper, Scissors?” Muscida says with a completely serious face, and Finnick notices Ron smirk.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Selkirk!” Librae scowls, still unhappy.)

"Will I see you there?” Librae says, out of the corner of her mouth, predictably expressing irritation instead of worry **.**

“Nope,” Finnick shrugs, at ease. It’s not the case every time he goes to the Games, anyway. He can be a mentor; he can be a lover, but never at the same time. “Turns out the wicked have designs on someone else.”

“Poor bastard,” Librae comments darkly, her mood not much improved by that information. Her knuckles tap his shoulder, one last time. Like a knock at the door. Trying for formal. “I’ll see you when I’ll see you, then.”

He, Mags, and Annie watch the train leave, saying nothing for a long time, standing on the platform for god knows how long.

“How do you do it, Mags?” Finnick asks, and he’s tired. He hasn’t slept well today either. Only coffee powers him now, pumping through his veins.

Maybe he says it for Annie’s benefit. Maybe he says it for his own. It’s been six Hunger Games since he turned victor, and he still doesn’t have a clue how Mags manages to be in control.

“The same way you do,” Mags says, her hand touching his cheek, callused hands warm. He closes his eyes, for just a second, relaxing. Listening. “We keep moving forward. Protect each other the way we know how.”

“Mags,” Annie says, soft, conveying everything that can be said in just one word.

"You do the best you can,” Mags says, walking, and Finnick and Annie both walk alongside her, their pace steady.

 

 

They don’t watch the game. They put the television on mute and knit sweaters instead.

Well, more accurately —

Mags knits a sweater, Finnick knits a hat, a fair few, in fact, and Annie?

Annie makes a scarf, and tries to get the hang of knit one purl one.

 

 

“How are you guys so good?” Annie asks, mainly pointedly staring at Finnick. “You’re not sailors!”

“Years of practise,” Mags answers, Finnick catching an amused smile, a crinkle in her eyes, as she does her best to hide her laugh. Finnick can see it still, in the dimple of her cheek.

“Would you believe me if I said I found a magazine about it in the library?” Finnick says, and Annie groans, burying her head in her hands, the beginnings of her scarf fallen on the floor, forgotten. 

“Enough already,” Annie mumbles, evidently highly embarrassed. “Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not  _that_ nefarious,” Finnick insists, a bland smile already at the edge of his mouth, widening if only for the moment that Annie looks up. She doesn’t. But her shoulders hunch instead, and there’s victory in that. “I really  _did_ find them there. What can I say? I got curious; I asked Mags, the rest is history.”

When it comes down to it, knitting is a bit like tying a knot. The effect is the same, at least.

It puts his mind at ease.

 

 

The Seventy-First Hunger Games victor comes in the form of a scrappy, fierce girl; chin raised high, aggression gripped tightly in the sooty hand that held that axe.

She wipes the back of her hand and spits, her mouth bruised. Her broken teeth glistens red with blood. Her eyes, mutinous.

 

 

“I was like that,” Annie says, quietly, as they watch the interview, and the anger still doesn’t leave the newest victor’s eyes. Annie speaks in soft tones so that her parents don’t hear her.

Finnick doubts that they would, anyway. Aunt Maria is charming enough, wry with a grin, and successfully engaging Zeke and Sophie Cresta deep in chatter so they don’t notice.

“Wasn’t I?”

“We all were,” Finnick says, bumping shoulders as a gesture of support.

Annie was — in a way, yes. Sure. You could see Annie’s anger, in a quiet, sedate way, as she repeated the words over and over again — that she failed, that she lived, that Teddy died — you could see Annie’s anger simmering as her shoulders became more pointed and she refused to talk to anyone. You could see the anger in the way she spoke, refusing to speak in terms that the Capitol simply could understand.

“You just see it differently, after you win,” Mags says, her hand over Annie’s, a gesture of comfort, placation. “You know what it’s like to be in their shoes. And you’re older because of it.”

“I wish…” Annie starts, then stops. 

She doesn’t have to it aloud anyway; they all know what she means —

 _I wish I didn’t share their experiences_.

_I wish I didn’t know what it was like to watch the lights go out in a friend or foes’ eyes._

_I wished I could still feel like the person I was before._

_I wish, I wish, I wish…_

A kindred grows between the victors because of it. It doesn’t mean they like the victors of the other districts instantly, or that they’re automatically friends, but —

It’s prickly and the one scar the Capitol cannot remove physically, and it binds them in a way that nothing ever will.

It doesn’t get any easier. Instead, it becomes part of who they are.

“Yeah,” Finnick says, his hand placed lightly on her shoulder.

 

 

“I’m sorry about before,” Annie says, and Finnick looks at her, bemused. “Snapping at you when you found out about my Timer.”

“It was straight after the reaping, and you… put on a show,” Finnick says hesitantly, remembering the memory, the fierceness in her expression. It’s not like he doesn’t get it. It’s a stressful situation, and sometimes there’s just this need to lash out. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Annie sighs, arms folded over her chest. “It was shitty of me, and I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”

“Mm, well, you do have a track record about being tetchy when it comes to soulmates,” Finnick teases, his tone light. He waggles his eyebrows. “Including towards your own soulmate.”

“Yeah,” Annie mumbles, blushing. “I guess I do.”

“I figure that our shittiness cancels out,” Finnick shrugs, and he can’t begrudge her for it, when he’s done the exact same. He knows that given a chance to repeat, he wouldn’t do it, but has no doubt that Annie would. But they don’t get second chances like that anyway, so it’s a moot point. “Let’s say that it makes us even, alright?”

“So… we’re okay?” Her sea green eyes look at him curiously, worried, and Finnick nods.

“Yeah, we’re okay,” Finnick reassures her, before cheekily adding. “Throw in a cup of coffee, and we’re more than okay.”

 

 

Librae all but flings herself into his arms. One day. That would be nice.

Rather, what actually happens is this: she slings her arm around him, and uses her other hand to tap him on the chest.

“Admit it, you missed me,” Librae smirks, curly ringlets shimmering all over his shoulders.

“Didn’t even notice you were gone,” Finnick replies, blithe. Librae rolls her steel grey eyes at him, and pushes off him to greet Annie, embracing her in a bear hug.

“C’mere,” Ron says, patting Finnick on the head, ruffling up his hair, and serving as a perfect distraction. “Aemelia made you your favourite again.”

“Thanks,” Finnick says. To Muscida, he says, “I made you a scarf.”

“Oh?” Muscida smiles, surprised, but pleasantly touched. “Thank you, Finn.”

“Julian says he made cake,” Finnick lets them know, passing on the message, “The really alcoholic kind.”

“You mean the only kind,” Ron says, casting a sceptical eye on Muscida, daring him to say a word.

Muscida beams, proud as a peacock. “That’s my husband for you.”

 

 

He ties and reties the rope into knots, into nooses, into something that leaves his hands aching and sore, and then he swims, submerging himself into the cold water, hoping that it will help him to breathe.

He’s always a little bit like this, after the Games, the Tour, the part of playing the lover, and it breaks his aunt's heart. A jitteriness that won’t go away, but he’ll smile anyway, and pretend its fine; because that’s the only thing Finnick knows that he can excel at. A perfect smile, a repressed scream. Nobody can tell the difference these days.

It doesn’t matter that he didn’t go, it seems, he’s still reeling from the aftershocks, seeing his fellow tributes out of the corner of his eye, whispering his name before he goes to sleep.

It’s an old wives tale, he tells himself, that Davy Jones and his indefensible locker, as he searches the shelves for that name. It’s nothing but a folk lore, but legends grow and mutate from less. Someone is bound to have written him into their story.

Finnick hopes that the old bastard has his name on one of those lockers. But they’ve never pulled him down yet.

He can imagine it all too easily — the ship in all it’s tattered, broken worn down glory. The names carved on the floorboards, on the walls, the seaweed clogging the smashed windows, with no light, no light anywhere.

He writes it down, tears the paper up, and crumples it in his fist. Breathes. Counts to ten. Imagines it.

The tributes are there. Samuel. Liv. Sarah. He hopes.

He swims until his limbs ache, until he pretends to himself and says that he’s sick of the sea, the way it sticks to his lungs and to his skin, and tells himself that he doesn’t love the way the salt washes the sugar away.

He listens to the seagulls and envisions them as Davy Jones’ messengers, calling his name if he strains his ears enough.

 

 

He’s not really cut out for friendships — not permanent, long lasting ones that go beyond banal trivialities.

 

 

“Come on,” Librae says, after she’s bored of resettling, of pestering Ron, of whatever the fuck she was doing before she finds him at the sea, and drags him to his house and helps herself to whatever is in the fridge while he has a shower. “Let’s go to the library.”

“You have a book in mind?” Finnick asks, because it’s sometimes like that — Librae will want a book that is romantic or mysterious or historical and true or dry as a bone, and sometimes she just doesn’t know and want to read something — be it old or new.

“Not yet,” Librae shrugs, pushing him a plate of sliced chocolate cake. Aunt Maria cooked it three days ago. Finnick snorts. “But I need to read something.”

“You could always go without me,” Finnick points out, rummaging the draws to pull out a fork. If Librae’s offering him his own food to eat, then who is he to resist?

“Yeah, I know,” Librae agrees all too easily, but her smile is soft, less jagged, more affectionate than he’s used to. “But I like you.”

“Aw,” Finnick says, a tiny bit teasing. “Are you getting soft?”

Librae doesn’t answer, only folding her arms across her chest. “Eat your damn cake, Odair.”

“Well, if you insist,” Finnick smirks, and takes a bite.

 

 

“You managed to get Annie to take a step in here yet?” Librae asks, quietly, her voice a low murmur, one finger brushing the spines of a few books on the shelf. 

When she catches his expression, she smiles like a cat, obnoxious and silky and oozing in superiority. “It’s not exactly a secret, Finn.”

“She complains about it that much?” Finnick murmurs, raising an eyebrow. He peers through the books, wonders how far away Librarian Maureen is prowling, lurking beyond sight.

“Only a little,” Librae simpers, vindication coy in the curl of her lip, “Usually when she’s drunk. She says ‘what’s the obsession with books, Librae? I don’t get it.  _Wow_ , Librae, Finnick  _really, really, really likes books’.”_

“She doesn’t say that,” Finnick rolls his eyes, taking a book out, opening at a random page, and scans it, seeing if the words pique his interest. He adds, as an afterthought. “And your Annie impression is awful.”

“Yeah, well, I bet  _your_  Annie impression isn’t much better,” Librae rolls her eyes, and inspects the book in his hands, skimming the blurb. “Not that one, you’d hate it.”

“Oh?” Finnick balks. He doesn’t — he doesn’t do impressions. Never has. But if he did — he can imagine Annie’s thunderous look as she once again mutters  _that’s not what nefarious means._

“Yeah,” Librae grins, smug, turning a page for him, evidently recognizing the passage. Sounding bored, she tells him. “They all live happily ever after.”

“Disappointing,” Finnick sighs, snapping the book shut and returning the book to where it belongs in quick motion. He picks another, at random. “How about this one?”

“Don’t know yet. You’ll have to read it and let me know,” Librae says, waving her finger at three books, unsure which to pick and until eventually chooses the middle one because the title sounds most interesting.

 

 

It’s not surprising that Finnick likes to read. Any classic lothario would.

It’s more than that, though. He likes it all, the paper cuts, devouring the words, the love stories, the seduction that dead and buried writers have stylized to make an effort at romantic. He reads poems, and recites them, reforges the words anew —

Sometimes it’s a survival tactic. Sometimes it’s not.

What he really likes is recommending books — to Mags, to Erin, to Muscida, to Maria. He likes their opinions and their thoughts, what they think, what they hated. He likes quoting matches and being surprised because he got it wrong, or it got it right —

And Annie —

She tells him, sprawled out against the sand, that if he gave her a book to read, she’d give it a go.

“Books aren’t meant for burning,” she says, resting her hand against the curve of her cheek, and like watching a drop of water, Finnick’s gaze inevitably becomes drawn to the scar that marks her, a quick glance that somehow he can never resist when he’s certain she’s not paying him any mind. “Or just tell me the story, ask me what I think. That way is much easier, isn’t it?”

 

 

He was two weeks from fifteen. That’s what people forget, Finnick thinks, when they look at him, and call him the youngest victor. They don’t realize that he was in the last month of fourteen when he got chosen as a tribute, sharp as a tack, elfin pretty, on the cusp on being something terrifyingly beautiful.

 

 

(He  _is_ terrifyingly beautiful now and he wields that power with razor sharp cheekbones, a flushed mouth, basking in that decadence.

Everyone is waiting for him to fall.)

 

 

His sponsors gave him a trident, and turned him something to obsess about, lavishing him with kisses and rewarding him with secrets, and everyone who lusts for him pretends that they aren’t rubescent with shame.

Finnick doesn’t like birthdays much, opting for a quiet dinner instead.  Aunt Maria cooks her specialty, Mags bakes her famed cake, and there are obvious contributions made by Scott and Erin.

He leaves for the Capitol the day after.

He comes back with cigarette burns on his spine. He comes back with secrets that make his mouth feel full of dirt.

 

 

“I was thinking,” Maria says over breakfast one morning, “that maybe I should move out.”

“What kind of birthday week is this?” Finnick says, scrunching up his face, his hand planted into the cereal bowl because he’s not paying attention to anything but his aunt. When he finally does, he’ll call himself seven kinds of fools.

“I thought you might like the surprise,” Aunt Maria says, going quiet for a moment, and Maria is many things — but  _quiet_ is not one of them. It’s one of the reasons Librae likes her, Finnick suspects. “I thought that maybe you’d want your own space.”

"Don’t be ridiculous,” Finnick says, scoffing. “Where would you go?”

There are other options, he thinks. He could — he could move in with Mags, or Muscida. They’ll have him, he’s certain, if his aunt won’t.

The house would be quiet without Maria. The house would be — not a mess, exactly — because honestly, between the two of them, it’s Finnick that tidies the place up, picks up a broom and scrubs, but it’s Maria that makes their home more lived in, more  _theirs_. Without her, the home would be more — empty.

Mags’ daughter moved out, Finnick knows, into a nice place, not far from Victor’s Village. Finnick’s been there a couple of times, always at Scottie’s insistence. He still sees Edith around the neighbourhood, Erin and Scott hand in hand. Edith comes and goes as she pleases, and she never displays any discontent being in Victor’s Village, but sometimes, Finnick wonders if she left Victor’s Village as soon as she could because she felt out of place, watching damaged people move in every couple of years.

He wonders if Maria feels like that, now.

He says, a little desperately, without thinking about it at all. “Do you want me to buy you a house?”

“No, you idiot,” Maria says, looking incredulous, sea green eyes full of disbelief. “Don’t be daft.”

This isn’t something out of the blue. Finnick realizes, recalling Maria’s behaviour that he’d simply brushed aside, believing it to be related to his birthday. This is something that Maria has been trying to announce for the past couple of days.

“You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” Finnick says, the realization dawning, watching Maria nod. Tries to stay calm. Counts to ten. Thinks of a plausible reason. Any reason. “So. Are you moving to… Mitch's?”

“That was two boyfriends ago, and you know it,” Maria remarks, raising an eyebrow, staring at him like he’s an idiot, and then she corrects him, after a brief pause. “Harry's, actually.”

Finnick blinks.  _“Harry?”_

“Yes.” 

His hands curve against his knees. “Short for Harrison.”

_“Yes.”_

“ _Our_  Harry?” The Harry whom Finnick has known forever, the Harry who can get really neat meat deals with the butcher, the Harry who Aunt Maria befriended at the Academy and remained steadfast friends since. She nods, since apparently, words don’t seem to work. Finnick asks, astounded. “When… did that happen?”

“Hard to say,” Maria shrugs, waving a hand dismissively. “I don’t know, Finn, a while ago? I wasn’t paying much attention until I suddenly was in the middle of it.”

“Okay…” Finnick says, uncertain, finding her explanation to not very helpful. What did that even mean? Was it a quote? “And you didn’t tell me sooner because…?”

“I’m pretty sure I did,” Maria says, blunt. She folds her arms and looks at him quizzically.

“Oh,” Finnick blinks, hesitating. Had she? “It’s possible.”

“Who did you think I was dating for the past year?” Maria says, a light note of teasing, before shaking her head. “Mitch. Right. Wrong.”

“Past year, huh?” Finnick muses, wondering what could made him fail to notice that? He can’t have been engaged in a really amazing book at the time, could he?

Maria does tell him about the people she dates — to keep him in on the loop, reminding him that she _does_ have a life without him. Only, he never noticed that his aunt had something more than friendship with Harrison Wells. Though in retrospect, it does explain why Maria had been spending so much time with Harry as of late.

“Something like that,” Maria says, sounding wistful, expression turning fond. “Lizzy had to point it out to us, and then the both of us kind of thought… what the hell. We’ve been friends for years, it’s not our fault we didn’t notice it turning romantic.”

“Wow,” Finnick deadpans, still not sure if she’s playing a joke on him or not. “This honestly beginning to sound like a romance novel.”

He loves his aunt, but she’s bonkers. He shouldn’t be surprised, and yet he is. Aunt Maria is flighty, prone to flitter about because she likes keeping herself on her toes, and winding other people up. She lets people get close, but never close enough. Finnick’s picked that up from her, the disarming smile, the invisible barrier that prevents people from trapping him for too long. Mags may have helped him perfect it, but Maria was the one who he stole the technique, helped him improve it.

But once Maria cares — and she’s never been one to fall in love fast — there is something unstoppable and indomitable and ardent about it. Her love fills rooms, breathes life into the hollow shell of a boy he used to be. If there’s one thing Finnick knows, it’s that she loves her family with every pore in her body. After all, she’s spend her life looking after him, relentless in loving him even though he’s turned out the way he has.

His aunt laughs. “Yeah, it kind of does. Maybe you can find a better one, figure the rest out along the way.”

“I doubt it,” Finnick says, trying really hard to stop catching flies, but his mouth remains open, a permanent expression of surprise, that he can’t yet alter into happiness. Can’t even alter it into a smirk. “However the love story went, it’s sure to be something that should be written on stars.”

“And _that_ is why you’re my favourite nephew,” Maria says, smiling.

“I’m your only nephew,” Finnick says, impishly. “You love him that much?”

“Yeah,” Maria nods, “I truly, deeply do. That’s why I want to try living together with him.”

“Oh,” Finnick says, and it’s dumb of him not to realize that’s how serious she is about Harrison Wells. “It’s like that?”

“A little bit, yeah,” Maria says, a small smile playing on the corner of her mouth, he’s seen it on his own reflection at times. “It’s nice, Finn.”

“Well, alright then. If he makes you happy, then I’m happy,” Finnick declares, trying to be optimistic to his aunt. Still, he can’t help but add, with a dose of cheekiness. “So long as I’m your favourite person in the world.”

“I saw you being born, Finn, bawling your eyes out like you’d already lived through a storm,” Aunt Maria says, bone dry, and it’s hard to believe that she’d just turned twenty back then. Her voice softens, and love radiates from her, warm and gentle as the morning sun. “Of course you are.”

Because Finnick is still an asshole, as much he loves his aunt, he can’t help but ruin the mood. “What happened to his soulmate?”

‘Cause he knows for a fact that Harrison Wells had one.

“Didn’t work out,” Maria says, utterly frank, and Finnick doesn’t have to be a certified awesome person to hear the unspoken  _you asshole, you knew that already._

“Oh yeah,” Finnick says, after a pause. He forgot about that.

 

 

“Can you imagine it?” Finnick asks, wringing cloth, submerging it in water and then scrubs the window. It helps clear his mind somehow, cleaning houses. “Your parents leaving?”

Annie  _hmms_ , twisting her mouth as she thinks. “I mean, it’s going to happen one day, right? They won’t be around forever.”

“Yeah but,” Finnick whines, wheedling her a little bit. He’s known her for a while, he’s allowed to wheedle and be undignified. “You know that’s not what I meant. C’mon, Annie, humour me.”

“Mmhm,” Annie rolls her eyes, puts a more serious face on. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. As in. Yes, I can imagine it,” Annie says, nodding, her voice taking that tone again. That ‘This Is Me Taking You Seriously’ tone. “I mean, the Victor’s Village isn’t home. It’s nice, but… it’s still not home, you know?Sometimes, I wonder if this is the reason Mum wants to keep the house clean. I mean, I wouldn’t want this place to gather dust either, so. I don’t know. There’s a pub near here that Dad always goes to when he wants to spend some time with his friends. It’s not that Dad doesn’t like the new place, but… it  _is_  farther away.”

He can hear the smile in her voice. That her father is lazy and everybody knows it, and they’re fond of him anyway.

Zeke Cresta may be inclined to be lazy, but he's not a bad sort.

“But they stay,” Finnick says, his voice gentle.  _With you._

“They do.” Annie nods, equally as quiet. It’s rather like two ripples in water evening out the sea, forgotten by many, and yet there’s a sense of calm that Finnick can’t override. “I wouldn’t want them to be anywhere else, to be honest, Finnick. But, I mean, if they wanted to go, I wouldn’t stop them. I’d want them to still be in my life.” 

“I see,” Finnick says, wringing the cloth again. He looks outside. The street is quiet. Wonders why anyone would live here.

“Why not ask Mags? Or Ron? Or Muscida?” Annie suggests, opening a cupboard to fetch a glass. “They’ve reached that stage, so, they would know, right?”

“Maybe that might help,” Finnick muses.

 

 

He visits Muscida in the morning, slipping through the front door and quietly tiptoeing onto the sofa. There’s a pause that goes on for a fraction too long, Muscida’s hands stilling as he tilts his head and peers at him, before nodding and continuing his melody.

Still.

Finnick is nice enough to let Muscida finish his tune before he speaks, hands on his knees, leaning forward with roguish charm.

“Hey, you want to go fishing?”

 

“My parents moved out when I turned twenty-five,” Muscida tells him, sighing, his shoulders broad. “They thought enough was enough.”

“Did they ever move back in?” Finnick asks, watching for fish in the sea, the blood that’s only a trick of light.

“Only when it became apparent that I couldn’t cook,” Muscida smiles, nostalgically. “And even then, only for a while.”

Finnick snorts, tries to stop it. Really, he should know better. “They lived with you for twenty-five years, saw you win the Hunger Games, and they didn’t know that?”

Muscida laughs. “People forget the damndest things, Finn.”

“It’s been another twenty five years, and you still can’t cook.” Finnick says, slightly incredulous. “How does  _that_  happen?”

“You meet the right kind of people,” Muscida shrugs, trying to sound mysterious, and Finnick rolls his eyes.

“You mean Mags.” Finnick translates, smirking. 

“Not always,” Muscida grins wryly, looking far craftier than people give him credit for. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that he was victor. He has a clueless air about him, and then it’s like his focus sharpens, and Finnick can’t help but ask himself again and again, how did he forget? “Ron was pretty accommodating for a while too.”

Clearly, this must have been before Muscida met Julian.

“I can make a pretty mean egg, if worst comes to worst,” Muscida says, looking extraordinarily proud of himself. He’s not wrong. 

“True,” Finnick agrees, nodding. It’s not a secret that Finnick loves Muscida’s omelettes. But then again, who can’t cook an egg?

 

 

“It’s just for a month,” Maria tells Finnick for the last time as she folds the last of her clothes in a bag. She looks at him, her hands on his shoulders. “Alright?”

“Alright,” Finnick says, practically reciting her now, petulantly rolling his eyes. “It’ll be like nothing ever changed.”

“Not so, my young nephew,” Maria says, poking his chest gently. “ _If_  at any point it gets too much, you’ll let me know. And of course, I’ll be inviting you over to dinner all the time.”

“Right,” Finnick nods, dutiful, adding, with a scrunching up of his beautiful face, and now he can’t help but be pretentious. “Where does Harry live again?”

 

 

He tells himself it’s fine, that he’s fine, he tells his neighbours that he’s fine, and then comes the morning that he has leave District Four again.

Maria finds him on the piers, like she always has. She hugs him, whispers that she loves him when he needs to hear it most, and waits with him on the station, watching the train leave the station into the Capitol.

He doesn’t tell her that he misses her. She knows.

“Tell me a secret,” Finnick whispers that night, nothing more than a creature of seduction. His hand rests on the inside of his latest lover’s thigh, inching closing. She flushes, wanton and wanting, so impatient, Finnick thinks, fleetingly, his face betraying nothing. All the better to get it over with. Still, he plays the part, breath hot, the epitome of sin. “Something you’ve never told anyone before. Something for my ears alone.”

 

 

He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine.

 

 

(Thank fuck for Jacuzzis, Finnick sighs blissfully as he submerges himself in one. They’re miracle makers and wonder workers and they make his skin feel a little less filthy, bursting bubble by bubble. The water scorches.

Thank fuck.)

 

 

When he all but collapses into bed in District Four, his home feels distinctly and more terrifyingly empty.

The next morning he wakes, and waits and waits for the feeling to get out of bed, to crackle with energy. The moment never comes.

That’s okay. Sometimes it never does, and he gets out of bed regardless.

With a sigh, he musters the strength to reach out into the draw and pull out the rope he keeps at his bedside, tying and retying it into different knots each times. It’s muscle memory by now, he doesn’t even have to think: the action is ingrained that he might as well be a machine. He could probably do with his eyes clothes, hell, he  _has_.

Sooner or later, Finnick knows, he’ll get out of bed. Just… not now.

He’ll get up. Stand in the shower. Get breakfast. Eat.

He’ll do all that, and go for a swim, trying to find himself at sea, tasting salt instead of sugar. Later, he’ll seek out Maria; let her know that he’s back.

He starts to count to ten.

 

“You look awful,” Annie says, handing him a cup of coffee, just how he likes it. He doesn’t really remember the moments before taking a sip, but he does remember that detail for year and years afterwards.

Annie, with her sea green eyes, looks at him with concern. “Are you alright?”

They’re at the library, Finnick realizes. Or rather, he amends, the cafe situated just outside. They weren’t before, he’s certain, not when they first ran into each other, earlier today.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Finnick says, opting to take another sip. He just hasn’t properly woken up yet; mind still sluggish like it always is when he returns from the Capitol. He hasn’t accustomed himself to waking up at home without his aunt before. Not like this. He’s just being a baby.

Her face is sceptical, and Finnick can’t bring himself to say anything. Not a lie, not a truth, not a word.

“Where’d you go?” Annie asks, choosing a different tactic, and Finnick swallows, blinks, unsure to what she’s referring to.

“You mean,” Finnick taps his temple with his index finger, “… in here?”

He doesn’t — he used to — go away for days, when something reminded him of Sarah, of bright lights and flashes. When he saw Dory’s parents for the first time afterwards, he couldn’t speak for an entire week. He didn’t know Dory that well, but he carried — he carries her ghost with him, tries to take her to Davy Jones’ Locker each time he dives into the deep blue sea.

Dory didn’t die by his hand, but sometimes, he mulls darkly, it might as well have been.

Not just Sarah, but Noctis, Kurt, Hestia — however temporary the alliance was, they all made a show, it had felt like friendship in brief, tangible moments.

He doesn’t smile. It feels like the first honest thing he’s done in a while.

“I don’t know. Some place that isn’t here,” Finnick admits, twisting his bracelet absentmindedly. It hasn’t happened in a while — not in a bad, _bad_ way. His attention slips, sometimes, and he flinches a little when someone reaches out to touch him without warning. But never too noticeable — Finnick’s learned to relax instead of tense, to lean towards people who view him as objects of desire instead of recoiling, repulsed, as his instinct tells him that he should.

He’s good at turning his body into an instrument, to use it as a means of survival. If he hadn’t, he’d be dead. If he hadn’t, someone who he loves might be dead.

“Muscida talked to me about concentric circles last victor’s dinner,” Annie says, looking at her half-drank cup, briefly, before tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ears. “Did he ever mention them to you?”

Finnick  _hmms_ , trying to think back. “Once or twice.”

It usually came along with yoga, if Finnick recalls correctly. Every morning Muscida would practice yoga, and he would also visualize concentric circles to help further his tranquillity, stilling the mind. A ripple of water, the waves of the sea. Something like that, at least.

“Do you want to try it?” Finnick asks, watching her with curiosity. 

“Maybe,” Annie says, sighing, lifting her shoulders and dropping them. “I don’t know. I’m undecided. I thought I could use a second opinion.”

Well, Finnick  _did_  say that he tried a bit of everything.

“You should try it, and see if you like it,” Finnick suggests, considering it after a pause. He had quite liked yoga, actually, when he’d made a habit out of it, and then he’d gradually… fell out of it. He’s not entirely sure why he stopped. “Give it a few days, and see what happens. If you don’t like it, well, don’t continue.”

A devious thought sneaks into his mind, and once it’s there, he can’t shake it.

“Or is this a ploy to get me to spend some time with you?” Finnick grins, sounding positively gleeful.

“Um —”

“Did you  _miss me_ , Annie Cresta?” Finnick teases, watching her cheeks turn into a shade of pink that he finds adorable. Why he uses her full name, he’s not entirely certain, but it has a magnificent effect. 

He’s being obnoxious, and he loves it.

“Not when you say it like that, I don’t,” Annie grumbles, after her eyes stop being so wide. It’s almost a shame, if only he didn’t prefer this side of Annie better.

“Ah,” Finnick says, smiling nonetheless, and feeling accomplished as he takes another drink. “But you  _did_  miss me.”

“Maybe a little,” Annie begrudgingly says, looking at him with definite affection. Fondness, even.

He chokes on his coffee.

“What the fuck, Finnick?” Annie says, startled, before she begins to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

“Wrong pipe,” Finnick wheezes, hitting his chest in an attempt to dislodge — liquid stupidity. Something like that. “And you — you  _swore!_ ”

“Imagine that,” Annie dryly snarks, her emotions distinctly characterized as amused. “It happens, Finnick.”

“Not nearly fucking enough,” Finnick goads, narrowing the distance between them so he can feel like co-conspirators with her. He even lowers his voice to magnify the effect. “Say another one when you’re not furious, Annie. I dare you.”

“You’re full of shit,” Annie humours him, mouth quirked into a smile, no malice or anger detectable in her voice. She looks at him, expectant. “There. Fucking happy now?”

“As a matter of fact, I _am_ ,” Finnick smugly declares. “I am full of shit, and I am very fucking happy.”

Predictably, Annie rolls her eyes. 

“I cannot believe I am friends with you,” Annie says, side eyeing him with disbelief.

“Soulmates,” Finnick corrects, lulling his voice into a dramatic whisper. Then freezes. “Uh —”

“Well, yeah, that too, I guess,” Annie agrees, awkwardly after a pause, head tilting as a sign of acknowledgement, then adding some levity to the lull of conversation. “But friends, mainly.”

“Yeah,” Finnick agrees, absurdly pleased with that notion. His face grows warm with the thought of how much he likes it. He’ll take it, as much as he’s able. “Alright then.”

Annie surprises him, all the time, and actually — he really likes that about her.

“I can’t help but notice that you took me to the library,” Finnick states, blandly. He watches her to see if she reacts, to see her cheeks flush pink again, or curiously becomes self-conscious.

“It’s the cafe, Finn,” Annie deadpans, her voice monotone. “It’s not quite the same thing.”

“Eh, it’s close enough.” Finnick shrugs. Tomatoes, potatoes. “You like the coffee?”

“It’s alright,” Annie says, her fingers wrapped around the empty cup, as she peers down as if to inspect the contents, as if she could imagine the cup filling up by wishful thinking. She shakes it a little bit, then sighs as nothing happens. “I thought coming here might cheer you up.”

“Oh?”

She looks at him with a small smile, with crinkled eyes. “Is it working?”

“Maybe a little,” Finnick grins, feeling like he’s ready to tread on dangerous waters, his attention wavering to the nearby building. “But you know what would make me feel even better?”

Annie’s eyes narrow, dangerously close to becoming a glower. “You  _wouldn’t._ ”

“Nefarious Operation Six-Eight-Two: Let’s Cheer Finnick Odair Up would be a  _resounding_  success if Agent Annie Cresta accompanied the Great — nay, the  _just_  Finnick Odair to the library for five minutes,” Finnick goads, not even sure where he’s is going with it, since all he’s doing is opening his mouth, and blurting out randomly strewn together words, but it sure does sound impressive.

It’s worth it alone for the scowl on her face, almost thunderous.

“Stop adding the word nefarious to things that aren’t even  _remotely_  nefarious!” Annie hisses, flushing bright red.

Finnick wishes he wasn’t on the brink of giggles, but the moment is so worth it and wonderful to be a part of, and Finnick can’t stop his shit-eating grin from emerging.

It only infuriates Annie more. “You were doing  _so well_   _up until this point!”_

He  _would_  stop using that word if only she stopped being riled up.

Not that Finnick would admit something like that.

“And besides,” Annie sniffs, trying to regain some airs of being prim and proper, and the most like her mother that Finnick has ever known, “I doubt even you, _great_ or not, can find a book to read in five minutes.”

“Depends if I already had a book in mind or not,” Finnick grins a winning smile, much to Annie’s dismay.

She looks at him with a dismal, dismal,  _dismal_  expression; mouth ajar, eyes dead and rife with scepticism. 

Weakly, almost pleading, she asks with regret. “… have you?”

He cracks his knuckles. “You have to come with me and find out.”

“Damn it, Finn! _This_ is what I get for being nice to you,” Annie mutters, cursing under her breath. She heaves a great sigh, and then stretches out her hand, presumably for him to take. 

He doesn’t, staring at it instead. 

Finnick won’t admit it to anyone, if pushed, but he’s flummoxed.

“If you’re taking me there,” Annie says through gritted teeth, being thoroughly dramatic. “Then I’m being dragged in kicking and screaming.”

“It’s a library,” Finnick feels compelled to point out, still somewhat thrown off guard by Annie’s actions.

“I will be kicking and screaming  _quietly_  then _,”_ Annie says, waggling her fingers and closing her eyes, waiting for him to take it, which at last he does, and rushes outside with leaps and bounds, stupidly excited. “Do your fucking worst, Finnick.”

He’s never had a best friend before. 

 

 

The thing is, Finnick has always known how to move in social circles. He knows instinctively how to be liked; he learnt pretty damn quick how to be desired.

He knows how to be effective, efficient, how to work in a team without caring about anyone so long as the task is completed as quickly and satisfactorily as possible.

He grew up in the Academy surrounded by peers who he supposes he could call his friends, but never really felt close enough to believe it. They liked each other well enough, but, like any good survivalist, it was the finish line that mattered more. He was young, scrappy, and pretty, and every person he might potentially befriend might be a candidate for the reaping. The distrust was mutual, on reflection, the wariness never too far away whenever Finnick met with an old classmate by strange happenstance. They weren’t taught how to trust, that came later, but they certainly knew how to work together if the situation required it.

Finnick knows a thing or two about being two faced.

And then he became a victor, and the rift between him and his peers widened.

The other victors — Mags, Muscida, Ron and Librae — were the ones who understood, the ones who got angry and fumed, and revealed facets to him that existed beyond the camera — but somehow he’d never considered them as friends either. 

They were something else.

They were like him, and before he knew it, he’d become part of the makeshift family that comprised of victors. A makeshift family. That’s the phrase Finnick always returns to whenever he tries to make sense of — 

Everything. Them, when he lets himself, grappling with thoughts he still thinks are best left alone.

They’re more than that, Finnick knows, if he’s being really honest. They’re more than makeshift, more than bandages to hold him together because they’ve shared the same experience, and try to take care of each other in spite of their differences. He cares about them as if —

They  _are_  his family, as broken and imperfect as it may be. He’s known no other.

He never knew his parents, though that doesn’t bother him, raised by his aunt, and with dwindling memories, his grandfather too. He thinks that might be broken and imperfect too, but somehow the pieces fit, alongside with the victors.

Annie though, Annie is something else completely.

But what is hard to say.

 

 

(It’s not — he thinks, fingers brushing over the non-existent scar, where the scar should have been, where the scar still  _might_  be if he scratches his wrist with just enough pressure to leave marks — it’s not just because they’re soulmates.

Maybe it’s because it’s Annie, and he’s become accustomed to her orbit of thought, of being, of Annie-ness.

Maybe it’s something else, though.

He just — doesn’t know.)

 

 

“So I saw my soulmate for the first time since… fuck knows,” Librae tells him, slurping a smoothie, loudly. They’re at the cafe where they’re best known as the asshole victors. That one is on Librae though.  _Mostly_. “Whenever we first met, and the Timers went off and everything went to shit. Turns out she's married.”

“That’s…” Finnick says, carefully peering at her, for the cracks that she sometimes slips. Tense shoulders. Mouth curled in disdain. That particular grey shadow that passes over her face. Her voice that can be rough as sandpaper, as soft as silk, depending on which emotion her heart resides with. “That’s good, right?”

"I guess so?” Librae says, somewhat bemused. There’s this detached air of gruffness that tells him that she’s been spending a little bit too much time with Ron. Usually she can shake that off with a martini, but not this time. “I mean, I was kind of hoping that I’d never see her again. And now that I have — well, now that I have… I find out that she’s married.”

“Married,” Finnick echoes, wondering if he should reach out and comfort her. He doesn’t move, watching her mouth contort into a scowl, he counts the seconds. Reaches ten, twice, before he feels that he should speak. “Huh.”

“Yeah,” Librae nods, shoulders set, words tumble out like she’s spitting over bridges instead, “Good for her, you know?”

“Yeah,” Finnick agrees, the wariness careful on his tongue, careful not to let it slip, recalling that train journey where they got drunk and dreamed up a million possibilities, a million ways it could have gone. He doesn’t ever think he included the possibility of being married. “So what about you?”

“What about me?” Librae lifts her brow, like she’s ready to scare him all over again like when they first met, and he didn’t know any better.

He was an idiot back then, projecting himself to be more than he was, playing a part almost blindly, and then sharpening quicker than a blade. He had laughed carelessly, thinking her carefree, as she turned up her nose and paid more attention to Dory. She’d bared her teeth at him, and he hadn’t jumped exactly, but he’d certainly been taken aback by the level of her acrimony, and acted meeker towards her, somewhat more cautious than he usually did around people who intimidated him. He found her so cool, and he didn’t know what else to do apart from stuttering. The memory had made her laugh for weeks, the first time they talked about it.

“How are you really?” Finnick says, deceptively light, banishing the worry that exists only in a prolonged stare.

“Better than I thought I would be, honestly,” Librae laughs, without any humour in her voice. “Still processing it, I think. Can’t get my head around it for some reason. I can’t quite… I made such a terrible impression, Finn — ripping my Timer off like a temper tantrum — I mean. This time I was… calmer, at least.”

That’s one way to describe her, but not how Finnick would. Crooked legs, slanted shoulders, not quite the haughtiness of a jilted lover — not even one that’s stuck on might have beens. There’s a bitterness lodged in the paleness of her green eyes, steel grey in better light, but that’s been there as long as Finnick has known her.

Not saddened, not broken by it, but in a flurry about it nonetheless, impatient to pin her thoughts that flock away whenever she tries.

But sure, calmer than the time when Librae discovered her soulmate.

Librae sighs.

“I felt — I feel so relieved. That she hadn’t been waiting for me to change my mind, or something,” Librae states, her voice as clear as water, as she takes another pause, another slurp. “I don’t know. I would have felt bad for her, if she’d waited.”

Librae wasn’t one to wait. She didn’t look back, recoiling from the disappointment, and closing the book, decidedly apathetic to how the story might have ended if only she’d continued.

Librae hadn’t waited, angry at first, before subsiding into half-hearted efforts, eventually preferring the one night stands, never quite able to make a relationship last longer than a month. At least, Finnick’s fairly certain that’s her track record. She got bored easily.

Pity it’s not the evening, but the morning, Finnick idly thinks, taking a sip.

Blithely, he asks. “Do you think you could ever been good friends with her instead?”

“Not really,” Librae shrugs, moodily staring into her smoothie, “She seemed prissy.”

“ _Prissy_ ,” Finnick echoes, tempted to laugh.

“Sure,” Librae says, narrowing her eyes, defiant. “Why not?”

He lifts his hands as a signal of defeat. Finnick knows nothing about Librae’s soulmate — her face has long since faded like waves over the shore — he only knows that she’s married and that Librae doesn’t like her. Her personality could be anything at all. It’s entirely feasible that prissy is part of it.

“Look, Odair, don’t be obnoxious like Selkirk about shit like this. I’m serious,” Librae says, evidently on edge. She softens, somewhat, temporarily. “I’m happy that you and Annie are friends, and that Muscida and Julian are in love. But if either one of you rub it in my face  _again_  and act like  _all_  soulmates are destined for  _love_  or  _friendship_  —”

“You’ll tear my throat out?” Finnick teases, eyes twinkling as he relaxes to the sound of her disgust. He’s heard this speech a thousand times before, told to Muscida, of course. It’s interesting, being on the receiving end, to say the least. “Tell the next victor awful, awful lies about me that’ll send them running in the opposite direction?”

“Well,” Librae says, considering, eyes glittering with the thought now that he’s put in her head, “it might do your ego some good.”

“My ego is perfect,” Finnick insists with a perfectly sincere declaration, not daring to ask which one she prefers.

Librae smirks, teeth sharp as a shark, mouth crimson as a wound. “Clearly.”

“You’re just jealous about my perfect ego,” Finnick declares, changing his sincerity to smugness, a transformation that always gives the best results. Nine out of ten times.

Still, he promises, in his own way, that he’ll try not to be obnoxious about it. By buying her the next round.

On their fourth shot of vodka, Finnick says, “Married, really?”

 

 

They generate a couple of theories.

Librae likes this one best: her soulmate was married the day before they met. Fell in love with her beau, worked hard to make it work, but — well, once in a while she got curious, flicking to the numbers on her Timer, a slow and steady descent to hell. Of course she was disappointed that day, who wouldn’t be? Everyone expected better. Her name is something stupid like Priscilla. Priscillas are definitely prissy people. Librae would know. Librae has known a couple of Priscillas, and all of them, without a doubt, were prissy in some way.

Finnick likes this one best: Librae’s soulmate is a widow, but whether this happened between the two meetings or before then is still undecided. Her lover’s death left her not exactly broken hearted, but certainly reeling from the shock and left feeling let down. She has a child, reaching five, and it is sentimentality more than anything that she keeps both the ring on her finger and the Timer on her wrist. Fewer questions get asked that way. Sometimes she even lies and says that she married her soulmate if she’s feeling particularly deceptive. Finnick decides to name her something like Jasmine, this time around, he thinks. Something that’s a little bit like perfume.

They call her other names, think of other alternatives, make up different storylines for a stranger Librae never intends to meet again. None of them are good, or romantic, or even remotely happy.

Finnick wishes he could share her bitterness. He pours himself another drink.

 

Maria helps Finnick bake a Pavlova.

Mags is determined that the victors should spend time together, and sometimes, if he’s absent for too long — from the monthly victor’s dinner, not her house, which he frequents as if he’s a third grandson, Erin and Scott have told him so many, many times — she changes the date so that he can make it and hang out with the others.

And of course, he always bakes desert if he can help it. By now, that’s just common courtesy.

And if Maria helps too?

Well…

“Cooking’s always more fun with two people,” Finnick insists, as his aunt reads out the ingredients, and Finnick, like a dutiful nephew, collects them and places them neatly on the counter.

Maria flicks his forehead, smiling brightly.

“Whatever,” Maria says, letting out an amused huff. “You just wanted to spend more time with me.”

“Of course! You’re my favourite aunt!” Finnick announces, theatrical as always. He’d rather say that instead of _I miss you._

Maria laughs. “I’m your  _only_ aunt, you silly boy.”

“That doesn’t make it any less true.” Finnick says firmly, his arms across his chest, his love so fierce it nearly bursts in his chest.

 

“This has Maria’s fingerprints all over it,” Mags wryly comments, as Finnick presents her his fabulous cake. “Always with a flair for the dramatics.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Finnick snorts, only a little bit flippant. In actual fact, he doesn’t think his arrogance for this occasion is uncalled for. “It’s the best thing we’ve ever made.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mags says, eyes bright and full of fondness, “I’ve tasted some truly delicious desserts by you two over the years.”

“Just wait until you taste this one,” Finnick promises, preening slightly, before peering over his shoulders and wondering where her grandchild are. Scott and Erin are usually around here.

There are many ways to describe Mag’s home — warm, safe, secure — but quiet is certainly not one of them.

“Annie and Librae took them for a walk,” Mags says, once she’s realized who he was looking for. He thought her home seemed rather… still. “They should be back soon.”

“Great,” Finnick says, and rolls up his sleeves. “Guess that means that it’s up to me to make the place spick and span.”

“You know where the mop is,” Mags says with a smile, eyes warm. 

Finnick is already walking.

 

 

He does like the victor dinners, as much as he tends to misses them.

There’s Muscida and Ron who actually tend to get on quite well since Mags explicitly banned them from making small talk about soulmates and things that make them grow exasperated at each other — and Muscida, for most part, does  _try._  

Muscida means well, but sometimes he can’t stop himself. Sometimes. 

And, well, Ron likes being cantankerous because that’s what he likes.

Librae is often frosty, and often a little rough around the edges, but she tends to relax the longer she stays there.

It’s true, they each spend time together regardless, but never quite like this: never the six of them in one home, spending an evening catching up and gossiping and laughing, with the threat of the Capitol lurking far, far away.

Once a month, they let themselves believe in the lie.

It makes them feel a little less alone, a whole lot more like family, Finnick believes, and always gives Mags the biggest hug afterwards.

 

 

Oddly, it’s Annie that asks Mags.

It’s not an unspoken rule, but somehow, it was just never commented on.

Ron and Muscida are entertaining Erin and Scott, the same old trick of becoming piggyback riders, or letting them sit on their shoulders is something all four of them unite on, and become competitive. 

“What happened to your Timer?” Annie asks, glancing at it with curiosity.

“Ah,” Mags says, gazing at the inside of her wrist, to where the Timer still resides. “That’s an old story.”

The last number twitches from six to seven to six again. It’s cracked, to put it simply. Her Timer is a permanent fixture on the countdown of two years and six or seven seconds, and never moves from those two digits. 

“It saved my life during the Games. It was just there at the right time, I wasn’t thinking, baring my wrist like that to defend myself, for a split second. As luck would have it, that was all I needed, I used my other hand to knock out that tribute, and I managed to survive another day,” Mags recounts, her expression one of dissonant serenity. “I don’t know what exactly happened, but it never properly worked after that. I was told that it couldn’t be fixed.”

“You could have it removed,” Annie says, so direct and so  _Annie_  about it, that Finnick bites back a smile. Of course she would say that, straight away.

“Joined the club, just like us,” Librae says, well aware that the circumstances were different. “There’s still time.”

“I could,” Mags agrees, with a nod, and glances at her broken Timer. “But I got rather attached to it, as proof that I survived. It’s a good reminder.”

“Did you ever imagine you’d meet them?” Librae asks, intrigued, quiet.

“Many times,” Mags says, her voice almost like a song, so musical in that moment. “I must have done at some point. Let’s see, I’d be roughly eighteen, I believe? But I like the thought of having met that person and having no idea who they are, you know? I passed them by and I missed out on someone who could have made a significant impact on my life. Although, that doesn’t stop Erin and Scott from trying to guess.”

“ _Oh_ , like if he’s tall or short or — like that, you mean?” Annie says, suddenly much more interested.

“You didn’t play that game?” Librae says, brows knitted in disbelief as she stares at Annie.

“Not really? I was never really one for soulmates, so, I never really… played along,” Annie shrugs, not self-conscious about it at all. She looks at Librae, a smile playing on her lips. “I listened, though.”

“Would you like to try now?” Mags says, gentle.  

“Um. Let’s see. How about someone who likes birds?” Annie says, after a pause. “And pie.”

“Someone who is dead by now.” Librae says, and Finnick snorts. Typical. So typical. If he’s feeling particularly morbid, he might ask Librae how they could have died, and goads her to narrate something truly fantastical and ludicrous.

All three of them look expectantly at Finnick. 

“I bet its Librarian Bob,” Finnick says at last, deviously as Annie’s face scrunches up in distates. “He’s always liked you.”

Mags laughs, charmed. The only thing she says is:

“Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.”

 

“Birds, really?” Finnick teases Annie, five minutes later, sitting besides her in Mags’ garden. 

“It was the first thing that came to mind!” Annie says, a little bit defensively, indignant. Her cheeks flush, pretty and pink. “What about you and your Librarian Bob? Does he even exist?”

“Oh yeah, they’re old friends,” Finnick grins, nodding. “They go way back when, I hear, like when Mags used to be known as Mags Flanagan. Actually, he used to be a teacher at the Academy, before he decided that he liked books a smidgen better. He was really good, Annie, you’d have liked his lessons.”

“A decision that had nothing to do with you, I’m sure,” Annie giggles, her gaze briefly flicking up to the cloudless sky. “What did he teach, then?”

“Swordplay,” Finnick says, simply. “It’s not so different from using a trident, though, when it comes down to it.”

“It is,” Annie says, looking at him incredulously. 

“Eh,” Finnick shrugs, feeling whimsical. “You use the pointy end. Stab.”

“Well, if you say it like  _that_ , then sure, Finnick.  _Sure_ ,” Annie rolls her eyes, the sarcasm particularly strong today. “Of course you’d be right and I’d be wrong.”

“I know that was difficult for you to say,” Finnick says like an academic, like Librarian Bob in his deep and booming voice, but with a shit-eating grin because this is going to rile her up for a fucking _fact_. “But I want you to know that I’m proud of you and appreciate you very much.”

The thing is about Annie, is that she might not vocally say  _fuck off_  as much as anyone else might, but when her eyes shine with annoyance, and she all but glowers, she conveys the sentiment very well.

“You think you could have won without it?” Annie says, her gaze lingering, her face softening into curiosity.

It’s not a question that crosses his mind too often these days. It used to plague him day and night, he’d woken Maria up countless times because he couldn’t believe it if he himself said the answer. Back when he was fourteen and convinced he was still in the arena, and it was his mind playing tricks on him. How his heartbeat raced back then.

But he’s older, more experienced now. Possibly not any wiser. A hell of a lot more arrogant. 

“I don't know. Probably,” Finnick says, simply. He doesn’t particularly like it, but he has no doubt. He was and is more than a pretty face, he could be cold and cruel and ruthless, that part exists within him still, and he will weather the storm without flinching, time and time again. “You just have to want it enough.”

He always had the will to survive. The trident helped, of course, and now he has a lifetime to show his gratitude for that, but he is so much more than just a pretty face who won because the sponsors bequeathed him such an expensive gift.

Annie’s face is one of sadness, of understanding, of believing him, that he nearly mistakes for the girl she used to be more than a year ago.

“I’m not so sure.”

Her face full of tragedy and heartbreak, stained with blood, and wanting nothing more than death. Still, the instinct to survive was stronger, overcoming her, despite anything.

“Nobody becomes a victor by accident, Annie. Not you, not me.”

The fact that she is here with him now is proof that she deserves to be a victor, learning the knowledge too late that you win the Games by losing. The fact that Annie drove the knife into the boy from District Seven instead of her own tells him that on some level, she wanted to win.

 

 

The thing is, he doesn’t vanish each month. But he likes to imagine that’s the case. Finnick Odair is very good at hiding. He can walk differently, talk differently, act differently. The devil’s in the details, and he’s very good at that, switching between the persona and person behind the mask at will.

Most of the time he succeeds.

“Who are you trying to be today?” Jules asks, after he asks for his free drink.

“Someone who really likes orange juice,” Finnick says, blandly, resting his head in his arms and trying to suppress a yawn. He doesn’t really know. He’s not trying to be anyone or anything at the moment. He just really wants orange juice.

“Alright, one free orange juice, coming right up.” Jules pushes up his glasses and brings him his preferred drink.

Well.

Alright, second preferred drink. For some reason, the coffee at Jules’ café is terrible.

While he waits, Finnick’s attention wanders, scanning the rest of the cafe, and soon he finds himself catching a familiar voice.

“You should really see it now, Coral — Ron asked his friend for some strawberry seeds to plant, but there are a couple of flowers sprouting and — it might not be much now, but it will be!”

“Hello, Annie,” Finnick says, approaching them with a confident gait, orange juice finally in hand. He dishes out a teasing smile. “I thought I heard your voice.”

“Finn,” Annie says, turning to face him, her mouth tugging into a smile, lovely as a summer’s day. “Is Jules offering you free drinks again?”

“Of course he is,” Finnick says, airily, before he blinks and smiles a charming smile at her friend. “And who, may I ask, is your friend?”

“This is Coral Ellis,” Annie says, her expression clouding into something solemn. “You knew her brother, Teddy.”

“Ah,” Finnick’s gaze flicks over to observe Annie’s friend closer. His smile fades as he recalls the similar blue eyes, the flaxen hair, the same chin held high. He sees the resemblance now, and it feels like a blow, wind being knocked out of him. “Yes, of course.” 

To Coral, he says, “I didn’t know Teddy for long, but I liked him a lot. He was very cute and bubbly to be around. He fought well, and deserved a kinder fate.”

“Thank you,” Coral says, quietly. “I’m sure seeing you in person made him very happy.”

It was rather like having a pet puppy, Finnick privately thought, flicking through his memories of Teddy, and Librae growing subtly more annoyed because she never got fawned over like that by the tributes.

“Yeah, he was very starry eyed to begin with. It was sweet, actually,” Finnick says instead, with a smile, choosing to focus on the positive. The few, brief moments that it was. “I remember Teddy being very enthusiastic, and full of questions.”

“About the Games?” Coral asks, tilting her head, confused.

“About  _me_ ,” Finnick corrects, quickly and effortlessly full of charm, earning a laugh. _Good_ , he can’t help but think. Better to make ‘em laugh than anything else. “I'm _always_ happy to talk about me.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Annie comments dryly, smothering a snicker.

Finnick ignores her.

“You were his favourite,” Coral says, fondly. She isn’t nearly as starry eyed as Teddy, Finnick can’t help but notice, relieved. Although he does wonder how much is due to Annie’s influence and what she might have said about him. “Did he tell you that?”

“He really didn’t have to,” Annie answers instead, taking a sip of her lemonade, prim. “But he did anyway.”

At every chance he got, Finnick silently adds, remembering. Well not quite, but often.

“It’s always a pleasure to meet a fan,” Finnick says, “especially someone like Teddy.”

“Thank you,” Coral says, blinking, beginning to tear up, and Finnick freezes — that was never his intent — he simply wanted to be nice, polite, to be liked — “I. Um. I… just need a moment. I’ll be right back. Excuse me.”

She moves briskly to the bathroom, and Finnick guiltily looks back to Annie.

Silence.

He begins. “I didn’t mean —”

“I know,” Annie says, her voice gentle, like the ocean waves stretched out over the sand. Quieter still, she murmurs. “Coral knows that, Finnick.”

“Still,” Finnick shrugs, fidgeting, trying to keep himself still.

“You were nice,” Annie says, leaning over and kissing his cheek. “Thank you.”

“I’m always nice,” Finnick says, focusing on that.

Annie raises her eyebrow, completely sceptical and seeing straight through his bullshit.

He amends his statement. “I try to be.”

“Sure, Finnick,” Annie says, teasing, evidently not believing him in the slightest.

“I do!”

“ _Sure.”_

 

It lasts longer than a month. But it’s fine. It is. Finnick just has to get used to it.

His aunt visits Finnick constantly that he almost doesn’t have time to miss her. Harry, tall, thin, lanky, bespectacled Harry gives him a key, tells him to drop in whenever he likes.

Finnick takes him up on that offer when he can, even invites Harry over to his home from time to time.

It’s the least he can do.

 

 

“Annie doesn’t know,” Maria says, one time after dinner, her tone carefully light. “Does she?”

He pauses. Holds his breath until he can’t.

Sometimes, Finnick is so sure that she does, other times, there’s a backhanded comment that guts him like a fish and reminds him that she’s oblivious.

It helps, he thinks, if he skirts around the issue, deflecting the moment when he can, keeping Annie in the dark for a little longer.

He can’t avoid it forever, or all the time, but — a little longer, that’s alright, surely?

Maria must see the answer on his face, on his hesitance to respond, but he uses words anyway.

“No, not yet,” Finnick concedes, sighing, twisting away.

“Finn,” Maria says, so kind, and gentle, and patient, “Annie is —”

“My soulmate? My friend?” Finnick snaps, regretting that burst of anger instantly. He forces himself to stay still, to calm down. He tries to mask the terror in his voice, replace it for something a little safer, a little more like sadness. Cowardice. “That doesn’t mean I _have_ to tell her _everything_.”

“I know that,” Maria says, pointedly. “But, listen, Annie is important to you, right?”

“Right,” Finnick nods.

“Well, this is important, too. And, at some point, Annie is going to find out,” Maria says, soothing, and he embraces her, trying to find comfort, to find strength in her arms. “Maybe it’ll just click one day, or the other victors might say something that doesn’t quite add up, but this isn’t something you can avoid forever.”

Just because it’s true, doesn’t mean Finnick likes it.

Maria continues. “I know that this will be hard, and I want you to remember that I love you, and I support you no matter what, but Finnick, my dear, darling nephew, you _have_ to tell her what happens at the Capitol.”

“Promise me you won’t say anything to her,” Finnick pleads, insistent.

“I promise,” Maria says, instantly. “She’s worried about you.”

“I know.”

 

 

Annie never says it, but Finnick can always tell.

 

 

The victors knew — somehow, it registered immediately. Maybe they’d seen other victors first, recognized the signs, the disgust, the self-loathing behind an attractive face.

Finnick heard their rage, knew that they fumed, and understood their helplessness. The inability to do anything about it. The fear. He doesn’t blame them; they have lost as much as he has. He just… sometimes holds some victors more at arm’s length than others.

He didn’t tell Maria either — she knew instinctively from the first time he refused to leave his room. He didn’t speak to her about it, but he saw the way her mouth tightened whenever he mentioned the Capitol, pretending that he was there for — anything, a photo shoot, a talk to Snow, anything than what it really was. When he did finally talk to her about it, forcing himself to speak in quiet whispers because he  _had_ to talk about it to  _someone_ , she’d known for a while. 

Aunt Maria had held him, stroked his hair and told him that she loves him, promised him —

Well.

Aunt Maria had made him plenty of promises that he knew she couldn’t keep. 

Not if he wanted her to be safe.

 

 

Annie didn’t know, treated him as a dear friend, and he’s terrified with what that knowledge might do to change things between them.

He doesn’t know how she might act, in light of everything.

 

 

He hates the clients most that take up a weekend. According to Snow, they’re the most generous benefactors, so Finnick has to reward them excessively in gratitude, and he hates every minute of it.

He hates it even more when there’s Cashmere with him.

 

 

“You should knit me a scarf,” Cashmere says, settling into the sofa like a cat, feline-lazy, afterwards, after they’ve boarded the train. They have some time to relax and catch up with each other. “I’ve seen the ones you’ve made Librae. I want one.”

"Should I give one to Gloss too?” Finnick remarks, mouth quirked into a cheeky grin, sharp tonight.

“If you like,” Cash shrugs, nonchalant, “My dear brother wouldn’t say no.”

“I have time,” Finnick says, considering it, pretending that he was some dastardly villain twirling his sublime moustache. “Something stripy — say black and pink?”

Cashmere smiles, her features golden in the sun. “You always did know his favourite colours.”

“That’s because I have good taste,” Finnick purrs, before propping his arm on the armrest, and rests his cheek on his palm. “Now, tell me if there’s any progress between you and Enobaria?”

“Why not put in a good word for me instead?” Cashmere sighs, locks of hair full of lustre, deciding to pay attention to the Capitol that decreases in increments the further the train becomes. “She likes  _you._ ”

“Yes,” Finnick agrees, all too readily. “But everyone likes me, Cash.”

 

 

He finds himself wanting to talk to Annie, afterwards. To tell her what really happens when he goes to the Capitol, at their beck and call.

But she looks at him — the worry radiating off every angle, her insightful eyes trying to pick him apart, and she sees through him in so many ways, but never quite  _this_  — and he knows that the worry would only increase.

So he dillies and dallies, Maria’s words gently pushed to the side, and he thinks of something else to say.

Something that will make her smile.

 

 

“What did you think?” Finnick asks, grin wide. It’s been two months since they went to the library together — surely, Annie’s had time to read the book he recommended by now. “Did you like it?”

“Yeah, it was okay,” Annie nods, speaking slow at first, unsure how to proceed, “It took a while for me to like the main character, but —”

“Once you did, it was smooth sailing?” Finnick asks, with a mischievous grin. A hopeful note in his voice.

“Well, no, he was an idiot, but. I guess by the midway point, I had kind of got used to him so that I didn’t care,” Annie admits with a sigh, and Finnick counts that as a triumph. “He had his moments, though. I wouldn’t say that he was all bad.”

It was the writing that he liked about that book, if Finnick’s being honest. The directness of it, the simple beauty in the words, no need to embellish. He didn’t particularly like the characters either, finding it difficult to get attached to them at first, but they were fascinating in their own right, and by the end of it, he’d been completely invested.

“The next book gets better,” Finnick says instead, encouragingly, “That’s when he really meets his match.”

“Oh really?” Annie says, sardonically. “There’s another book?”

“You didn’t think that the story would end there, did you? Rejected by his family, with only the clothes on his back?” Finnick says, incredulous. No matter how horrible Thomas Quash might be at times, even when he was young, Finnick thought he didn’t deserve  _that._

“I don’t know,” Annie laughs, humming briefly. “Maybe. It would have been an interesting place to the story to end.”

“Do you want to read it?” Finnick asks, curious, not sure whether her remark was laced with intrigue or apathy.

“Sure. Might as well find out how the story ends,” Annie says, not much of an indicator of enthusiam, and Finnick very wisely does not mention that  _this_ particular book series is a grand total of twenty books.

It is, he thinks, positively nefarious.

He smiles at her instead, innocently, and with an expression of delight.

 

 

"You’re fucking evil, Odair,” Librae crows, even, when he tells her of his plans, and successfully manages to regale Librae with his tale of being extraordinarily cunning and getting Annie to step into the library at the same time where Librarian Maureen still roams with an iron fist and a ferocious glower. “Fucking evil. Annie didn’t like the main character?”

“He gets better!” Finnick says, defending his hero, the bastard known as Thomas Quash. “Technically!”

“Mmhm, I know. It just takes a while for him to get there,” Librae nods, sighing. She’d liked Thomas Quash straight away, but then, Librae understood better than Finnick why he was disliked. She has a penchant for flawed and awful men. “And it just takes so long for the evil twin brother to appear.”

“Of course _Nemo_ would be your favourite character.” Finn snorts, remembering his name. They haven’t talked about this book series in so long that he’d nearly forgotten. 

“Hey, he fucked shit up! You cannot deny that!” Librae all but shouts, pointing her finger and narrowing her eyes at him, and Finnick grudgingly admits that the evil twin brother, Nemo Del Zotto, did indeed fuck shit up and that he liked those parts too.

Especially when Nemo hadn’t known he was Thomas Quash’s twin brother. As beautifully concise that author was, he was occasionally prone to melodramas, and when Finnick had read it for the first time, he’d been on the tenterhooks, trying to guess how their arc might end.

“Do you think Annie will get to the end?” Finnick asks, feeling in the mood to bake something. Maybe cookies. He's become fairly adept, since he’s been practicing Maria’s recipe for a while, and he knows that Librae can never resist free food.

“I think by the time she realizes, it’ll be too late and she’ll be so annoyed that she _has_ to know how the story ends,” Librae says, pouring herself, then him, a glass of wine. “You really outdid yourself this time, Finn.”

 

 

(In his defence, Finnick had forgotten that the book series was that long — he’d liked the book, thought Annie might too — it was only afterwards, when he’d returned another day, that he counted how many were in the series and… realized that it was be a pretty long saga. 

Initially, he had nothing but good intentions.)

 

He likes to knit in Mag’s house. He’s not entirely sure why, but it’s the place that gives him the most comfort, where he feels most at ease.

“Do you know their measurements?” Mags asks, wry, lifting her brow. “Even I can’t tell at a glance.”

“No, but, I have a plan,” Finnick says, defending his choice. “If I make these jumpers nice and big, then they’ll look adorable and they’ll have no problem.”

“I see,” Mags says, nodding, then shares a meaningful glance with Maria who presses her hand to her mouth to hide her smile. “Well, I’m sure you know best.”

It’s in a tone that tells him she thinks he’s being an idiot and won’t tell him in those exact words even if it is in that exact tone.

“Alright, fine. I’ll bite,” Finnick gives in, and is met with only silence. He continues, pleading. “Mags, dear, dear Mags, what would you do?”

“Oh, nothing. If you make them big enough, it should be fine. Do what you think is best,” Mags says, breezily. Maria is choking, unable to completely stifle her laughter. “Just put your heart in it, and I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m here if you need any help.”

Including, Finnick can’t help but think, the part where she tells him  _I told you so_  when it goes pear-shaped.

 

(As a matter of fact, that’s not what happens in the Seventy-Second Hunger Games. Both love their oversized jumpers. Cashmere stunning in the green and blue jumper, Gloss endearing in the pink and black jumper.

“You worried me for nothing!” Finnick tells Mags, almost crossly, if he wasn’t so giddy with relief. “ _Mags.”_

“Call it revenge,” Mags says, crisply, without elaborating on the matter.

“For what?” Finnick stares after her, flummoxed.)

 

 

Out of all the victors of District Four, Finnick sees and talks to Ron the least. He’s not entirely certain why that is — they’ve certainly become accustomed to each other, and there is no ill will between them. But somehow, they don’t seem to spend much time together.

It’s just — Finnick slips in through Ron’s house to visit Librae more than to see Ron; whereas Annie shows up, knocks, and prefers helping Ron with the garden, but will always take a moment to talk to Librae.

Still, it does happen — Finnick and Ron occasionally run into each other at the gym, and they talk then. 

Mostly they sweat, and work out, and Finnick leaves Ron to bask in the glory of the Jacuzzi, but still, he keeps him company to count reps, and likes the peaceful walk home together. 

 

 

“I’ve been thinking about soulmates recently,” Finnick says to Muscida, as they wait for the fish to take the bait and soak up the glory of the sun.

“About you and Annie, or just… soulmates in general?” Muscida asks, gazing at him carefully, a familiar knowing gleam there that’s just a little bit too much. There’s just something off putting about Muscida even though for most part, Finnick likes him.

“The latter,” Finnick says, rolling his shoulders, stretching his words out carefully, “I mean, it’s could be about me and Annie, but… promise me, Muscida, that you won’t get too  _you_  about it.”

“Fine,” Muscida agrees with a sigh, “I’m just here to listen.”

“Is a soulmate still a soulmate if you’ve removed your Timer?” Finnick asks, the rod steady in his hand, as he bares the inside of his smooth wrist to the sky.

Muscida says nothing for a while, thinking with furrowed brows. 

Eventually, Muscida says, “I would imagine so. Even if you — even if two people who have decided to remove their Timers do so, the fact remains that you have that knowledge that the other person is their soulmate. What you do with that, however, is up to you.”

Finnick scratches the back of his neck, his attention fixed on the ripples of the water. “So, Librae and hers…”

“I would say so,” Muscida says, considering it for a moment, eyes sliding to the horizon. “Despite everything, Librae still does see her soulmate as her soulmate, in spite of everything.”

“That’s a good point,” Finnick says, furrowing his brow. “So, if this  _was_ about me and Annie —”

“I… would ask if you still feel like you and Annie are soulmates?” Muscida says slowly, glancing at him, somewhat troubled. “I’m really not an expert on this, Finnick, despite what you might think. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“I know,” Finnick says, meeting his gaze. “I just wanted to know your opinion. But to answer your question, yes. I still feel that Annie and I are soulmates.”

He wonders what Annie would say. What she would think.

But it’s the truth. Despite everything, he still regards Annie as his soulmate.

It’s more than that, though. More than being friends. This is something else. Something different that Finnick doesn’t know yet how to put into words. He’s been circling around this thought for a while now.

“Then that’s all —” Muscida abruptly stops, shakes his head as if to reprimand himself, and tries again. “That’s all that matters.”

“You don’t care that we’re not in love?” Finnick glances at him out of the corner of his eye, scepticism written all over his face. He doesn’t mean to sound hostile and accusatory, but he can’t help but be a little puzzled by Muscida’s reserve, especially when it comes to soulmates.

“Oh, Finn, that’s… not it,” Muscida admits with a pause, frowning as he stares at his hands. “I care, but… like I said before, these things take time. It hardly matters what _I_ think. Most of it is up to you and Annie. I stand by that. It won’t be easy, and it probably won’t be for a while, especially all that’s happened to both of you and so what you’re not in love yet? You love her already, and she loves you.”

Do they?

Finnick’s never really thought about it like that before.

The thought that he loves her has never occurred to him.

“Maybe that’s what both of you need right now. For your soulmate to be platonic,” Muscida states simply, his tone changing like it does when he becomes almost philosophical. He does have a wonderful storyteller voice. “But I think, as I look at the two of you, one day. One day you’ll have your happy ending. One day, you’ll be in love with her and she with you. Maybe not soon, but…”

“One day,” Finnick finishes the sentence for him, breathing out.

So no matter what, it’s inevitable. At least according to Muscida Selkirk.

Silence.

“Was that too —"

“No, that was… alright.” Finnick says, dazed, trying to wrap his head around what Muscida just said. He was doing fine, at first, and then, it became too much. But that’s how it is. That’s how it’s always been. “Gimme a moment.”

“I’ve been thinking, a lot,” Muscida says, smiling self-depreciatingly. 

Before he continues, Finnick can’t help but interrupt, teasing. “Well, that’s never good. You know what Ron’s like when you try thinking for too long.”

“Very funny, Finn,” Muscida chuckling despite himself.“Listen, even though _I_ think it’s inevitable — _you_ have the choice in the matter. You can choose to listen to me, or think it’s utter rot. You don’t have to listen to me, but I think that you know what I mean when I say that knowing who your soulmate is a little bit like gravity. You two pull towards each other, in spite of everything that’s happened.”

“Yeah.”

“I can see it so easily — that Annie is the most important person in your life, and you in hers,” Muscida continues, evidently not finished, even as he lapses into a pause. “But why I should just give you just my opinion. Often, I’ve found Mags’ advice to be very useful, Finn: it’s up to you. You decide what you want.”

“But you said —”

“I know,” Muscida sighs, the wind blowing into his plaid shirts, his salt and pepper hair. When he speaks again, he sounds weary. “The thing is about Timers, Finn, is that they don’t tell you  _when_ this person is your soulmate best. They don’t tell you the moment you — two soulmates most naturally fit together so that nobody has any doubts — they just tell you  _who_ they are.”

Seems like Muscida has done a lot of thinking. Or maybe Muscida’s never been able to discuss his thoughts regarding soulmates with anyone, because everyone in Victor’s Village is either apathetic to they turn bitter towards him.

“Maybe some soulmates aren’t a natural fit instantly, maybe for others, what they need is time, or maybe — maybe people stop being soulmates. I mean, it’s possible, right? I’ve known some soulmates who… stop being soulmates, because they don’t work as hard as they could to make their relationship work. Maybe some soulmates just outgrow each other, or the relationship just naturally comes to a close. But you know me, Finn,” Muscida gives a sad smile, a small shrug. “I like to think that given time, two separated soulmates will come together again, regardless of the difficulties they face apart or not. I want to believe that every soulmate is meant to fall in love with each other. But, that’s what I want to believe. It’s not up to me to say how every soulmate works. How you and Annie work.”

Finnick’s throat feels dry. “What you said about Annie and me —”

Finnick doesn’t know how that sentence ends, and temporarily distracted by the second a fish takes a bite, and if he doesn’t make his move, he might miss it.

“I stand by it,” Muscida says simply, and Finnick wishes that he could hate him sometimes, only not, because Muscida, for better or worse, listens, and his heart is too big sometimes, and he’s never known what do with it. Finnick never knows how much attention he should pay to Muscida, and sometimes it’s like he’s sitting next to Maria. The amount Muscida and Maria care about people and believe in such things so fiercely, sometimes makes Finnick feel like he can’t breathe. 

Finnick doesn’t think he’s ever cared about anything so ardently, passionately.

“I believe you two make each other better,” Muscida says, observing, and Finnick doesn’t know what to say in response. “You’ve changed since you’ve met Annie, Finn, and I think, if you let each other, you’ll be happier than you ever realized you could be.”

If he let himself.

It’s only hypothetical. It might not work out after all. There might never be a happily-ever-after for them even if they did try.

“Do you think the other victors will resent us?” Finnick can’t help but ask, his voice small. 

He knows that neither Mags nor himself really held a grudge against Muscida for finding his soulmate all these years, but he worries about Librae, and to a certain degree, Ron, too.

“Nah, they’ll be happy for you,” Muscida shakes his head, the sound of his laughter reverberating the boat, “They just won’t want you to drone on and on about it. But if you want to piss ‘em off, it’s a sure fire way to get instant results.”

 

 

It seems true, actually, the more Finnick thinks about it, trading some fish to Amalia in exchange for some excellent coffee.

In spite of knowing that Annie and Finnick are soulmates, Librae has no issue with talking about Annie to Finnick, and presumably, likewise.

It’s different when they actually get to the topic as referring to their other as their soulmate. But even that doesn’t happen often, if at all, since Librae is determined that her soulmate will not be a part of her life.

 

 

As for Finnick, he’s actually really glad that Annie’s become a fixture in his life.

He can’t imagine life without her.

 

 

Two months before the tour, and Finnick knows that before long he’ll go a little stir crazy with how District Four gets in regards to when the victor arrives. It’s different when the victor is his own district; he can do fuck-all then. Now he has to do something.

“Well, hey, it’ll be a first for me,” Annie says, being optimistic for the both of them, as she sits comfortably on his sofa. “As a victor, this time around.”

Finnick frowns, a thought occurring. “Do you think you’ll get to meet her?”

“Not really. I’d have to act as the mad girl then, so it’s better if I don’t,” Annie sighs, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, “I’ll still be there, though, just to dance all night.” 

“You’re saving one for me, right?” Finnick says, impishly. He doesn’t doubt that she will.

“I save all my dances for people that I care about,” Annie confirms, beaming, her sea green eyes glittering underneath thick lashes. Her shoulder bumps with his. “So yeah, you can count on it, Finn.”

The weather is meant to be getting colder, but somehow, the air that moment seems so absurdly warm.

 

 

"How do you know?” Finnick asks, pressing his face into his aunt’s shoulder. “Every time, I’m supposed to go —”

Back to the Capitol. Back to being the Great Finnick Odair.

He never tells his aunt the dates, but she’s there, waiting for him on the piers every time.

“How do you know where to find me?” Finnick asks, raising his head, and he’s been taller than her for years, but it still feels like he’s looking up at her, asking her for all the answers.

He might as well be fifteen again, moping on the docks because everything he ever knew just became artificial and fake and he felt hideous knowing that he must emulate that whenever he returned to the Capitol like some prodigal son.

“Give me some credit, kid, I’m your aunt,” Maria says, her arm around him, as they sit in the pier and watch the seagulls fly. She presses a kiss to his forehead. “I know you better than you think.”

He doesn’t tell her the details, ever, but his aunt can tell all the same, when it’s better, when he’s worse, and when he’s holding back a flinch.

“You’ve always ran towards the sea whenever you got worried. Sometimes, I chased after you, worried out of my mind, other times I figured out that what I had to do instead was to wait right here,” Maria tells him, her voice soft and sweet, a song of the sea. “You always come back, Finn, no matter how long it takes.”

 

 

Sometimes Finnick wonders what life might have been like if only his mother had lived. Would his father still be alive? Would he still be around? Would he still be the mess of a human being when he lets himself be just Finnick Odair, after winning the Games?

Would it have really made a difference if they were soulmates or not, if his parents loved each other as much as other people say they did?

What of his aunt? Would she have been known as the fun aunt who visited from time to time, who wore recklessness on her heart or would she have been around for all the difficult moments like she was in this life? Would she still have fallen in love with Harry? Would she have loved Finnick at a glance and decided that she would stick with him through thick and thin? 

He doesn’t know how to miss his parents, or if he even can. He misses them in a way that he misses a stranger, because Maria gets sad and misses them more than he ever could. He misses them because he never knew them, but there’s not much attachment for him beyond that. He has vague recollections of his grandfather, a faded face than anything, but even that is far more tangible than his parents ever were.

But Finnick has his aunt in this life, he’s been raised by her from before he can remember, that’s the cards he’s been dealt, and whenever he wonders about what path he might have walked, he's really glad he’s on this one.

 

 

“It’s weird,” Annie says, stirring coffee, “for being reputed to be a playboy, you don’t really date anyone from District Four.”

“Hmm?” Finnick says, for a second thinking that he hadn’t heard her correctly. It’s too late to deflect it into a teasing remark that’ll surely make her cheeks turn apple red. It’s too late to salvage the situation, because he can hear his aunt’s voice in the back of his head crowding his thoughts.

If he’d only calmed down —

“All your lovers are from the Capitol,” Annie says, mouth pressed into a thin line, and he can hear the cogs turning, the inevitable conclusion. “I mean, Finnick —”

He could have said something witty, a superficial lie, perhaps, like he only has eyes for the people at the Capitol, that he was flattered that she was so interested in his love life, if only —

He panics, and it’s all over for him and he can’t breathe.

It feels very much like the he’s sinking in quicksand, like he’s wandered without realizing and suddenly he’s neck deep. If only —

“Finn?” Annie echoes, alarmed, and he’s been on edge for days, waiting for the levees to burst and break and —

He can’t.

He can’t do this right now.

“Not here,” Finnick says, his voice hoarse, a ragged whisper, unable to  _think_. “Any place but here.”

“Okay,” Annie says, softly, and takes him to the beach that is wild and overgrown, the grass scratching his limbs as they walk through to where they first had their picnic, where the wind is at its most restless, pacing back and forth, and howling in agony, and the sea clashes against the rocks. “What is it? What’s gotten you so shaken?”

Her voice is soothing, calming, he tries to anchor himself to that. He anchors himself to the sound of the sea, trying to sync his breathing to the galloping white horses.

“There’s… something I haven’t told you, and — it’s difficult for me to say out loud,” Finnick begins, digging his nails into his skin, trying not to show his fear, as he stares right through her, trying to focus on the sea.

He wants to run.

Maybe he should walk into the sea, try and clear his head there, collecting seaweed around his ankles. He’s not sure if he’d want to resurface if he did.

The thing is, the other victors knew. Whether they had experience, or had been around long enough to know the roles the Capitol — Snow — cast them as, they knew. The other victors had their own roles to play and they knew that their protection would never be enough. The Capitol wants, and it takes, and not once has it given a damn about you.

Snow never has.

“The Capitol… makes us into people we’re not,” Finnick says, slow, trying to sound steady. He counts to ten, thinks before he speaks. “They turned you into a mad girl, they turned me —”

Her breath catches in her throat, and Finnick continues, but later remembers how much that sound turned his blood to ice. 

“— into a whore.”

The realization dawns, the surprise turn to pity on her face, her mouth parted, sea green eyes sorrowful. He watches her every reaction in slow motion, wishing that he could drown.

“Snow sells me because the Capitol wants me,” Finnick admits, cold with shame. “And if I don’t — I don’t want to lose more than I already am.”

Silence suspends, feels like an eternity.

“How old were you?” Annie says, eyes shining. Bright with anger, and she uses it like a crutch, to lower her voice and not waver.

He summons all the air in his lungs; expels them.

“Sixteen.”

“Snow said I could have saved you,” Annie says, suddenly, guiltily, “if I’d just said at the start — before everything went to shit — if I admitted to everyone that you were my soulmate, I could have…”

That doesn’t sound like Snow.

“He said,” Annie continues, blinking rapidly. “Snow said that he was impressed with my discretion, that it was clever of me to leave your name out of Flickerman’s interview.”

 _That’s_ more like it, Finnick thinks, cynical. Trust Snow to make a compliment a veiled threat.

“He might have engineered your death if you had,” Finnick points out, forcing himself to think, to be  _practical_. If not Snow, then someone else, some other sponsor, perhaps. She couldn’t blame herself for that — had she really believed that for almost a year? “It’s not like I didn’t understand, Annie, back then. You did what you had to do.”

It’s something that victors say a lot to each other:

_You did what you had to do._

Sometimes it’s comforting, sometimes it’s patronizing, and Finnick hates that time and time again, it’s a sentiment everyone comes back to, a script that everyone has.

“You too.” Annie says, equally as fierce and insistent, her anger as great as her sorrow. He can feel her love rolling off her in waves. “You’re doing what you must to survive. Fuck what other people think about you.”

He’s certain she told herself that a million times throughout the Games, and after.

“Can you imagine trying to date someone like me, who is always going to the Capitol because there's a person next in line to fuck me?” Finnick spits, venomous. No fucking way. They wouldn’t understand.

“Did you even try?” Annie asks, replying lightning fast, and he hates how aware he is of the distance between them. Not once had she recoiled from him like she considered him to be ruined, filthy goods. “Has there ever been anyone you’ve ever  _wanted_  to date?”

Once upon a time, he would have said his soulmate. His perfect wish fulfilment soulmate, who would absolve him with a single touch. Because soulmates and fantasies worked like that, and true loves kiss erased all of yesterday’s troubles. He’s read a thousand books and more to try and figure out how to get a happy ending, none of them are good enough.

“No,” Finnick says, his mouth sour, his cheeks wet. “I’ve don’t get close to anyone enough for that.”

He doesn’t let himself.

Because then — then it really would be a tragic love affair.

 

 

They sit in silence for a time, listening to the restless wind, the foam being dragged away from the sand, and Finnick is desperately trying to pull himself together, trying to rearrange his molecules into something that is even  _remotely_  composed.

“What a pair we make,” Annie says, and there’s so much open affection radiating from her, as she bumps shoulders with him again, like everything — like everything is the same as it ever was, and he doesn’t repulse her, after knowing the truth. 

“Maybe that’s why we’re soulmates,” Finnick says, thoughtless, realizing after a second that he’s waiting for Annie to tense up and look uncomfortable.

She doesn’t.

“Maybe,” Annie says half-heartedly and lies sprawled on the beach besides him, staring at the sky instead. They never did get round to yoga, Finnick recalls all of a sudden, but he feels boneless in this moment, so maybe it didn’t matter. “Maybe.”

 

 

He’s dreamt about soulmates all his life, but now that he has one, known Annie for over a year, he still doesn’t know what that really means.

Because really — what the fuck is a soulmate anyway?

Are they someone that makes the other person better? Is it the most important person — friend — romantic partner — in that person’s life? Is it something else completely different?

 

 

“Have you ever thought that we’re not meant for relationships?” Finnick asks, his hand curved around the back of his neck, still and quiet and afraid.

Truth be told, he doesn’t like the sound of that — because he wants it, desperately, ardently, but reality is such a far cry from the books he reads, the glimpses at what might be, what could be. 

“We’re only twenty, Finn,” Annie frowns, looking up at him, her pretty eyes framed by dark lashes, her hair splayed out in so many directions, decorated by specks of sand. “Why not just hook up with someone instead of… thinking so much? The next time you see someone you like, just… go for it.”

He can hear a little bit of Librae in her words, the invitation to be each other’s wing person and Finnick declines again and again and again.

“Is that what you do?” Finnick asks, leaning over her, and teasing Annie with a smile, playing with the thought of brushing a flyaway strand of hair off her cheek.

Annie grins, slow and sensual, and oh so lovely to look at. He thinks she could devour him, and he’d let her without a second thought. “Sex is fun, Finnick.”

 

 

(It should be, but it never is.)

 

 

Love, Finnick has read about, should be a like a lightning strike — breathless and beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

Love is terrifying, Finnick knows, that’s part of the reason he feels resistant to it — he instinctively turns a blind eye when people use that word, turning out a little bit when Muscida mentions it because it feels a little bit too much like a fairy tale.

It’s difficult for him to accept love and let love in.

But Finnick — as much as he is terrified by love —  _does_  love people, as reluctant as he is to admit it.

Finnick cares, grows attached, and wants to protect the people he feels closest to —

He’s scoured the libraries in hope for a book that will one day have a dramatic declaration of love and for it to be platonic. Like a lightning strike, like a thunderclap, like the eye of the storm.

Platonic love is just as breathless and beautiful and terrifying as romantic love, Finnick thinks. To love a person is an incredible feat, because love has never felt as natural as breathing. After the realization, maybe, but not before.

The realization that Finnick Odair loves Annie Cresta doesn’t feel like a lightning strike or a thunderclap, it just feels quiet, like black rocks washed up on shoreline sand, like something he should have known a long time ago, and Annie —

Annie looks at him like she knows all this, and loves him anyway.


	12. Duende

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duende - Unusual power to attract or charm.

Sometimes, Annie can’t help but hate Finnick a little bit.

It’s not an all-encompassing hatred, like the hero of the story has for their nemesis, like Thomas Quash has for Ariel St. Luc in the book series that she’s currently reading, which Finnick recommended.

Maybe hate is the wrong word.

Frustration, Annie supposes, might be more apt.

Frustration that eats away at her, resurfacing again and again, like rain and stormy weather, and leaves her feeling cold.

At this point, Annie doesn’t think she has it in her to hate Finnick Odair. In fact, more often than not, Annie quite likes him, adoring the way his eyes light up and his face softens, loves him in the moments when he is so absurdly happy that he can’t help but rave about the latest book that she’s pretty certain she’s not going to read, but likes the sound of his voice anyway.

Still, as the feelings of frustration — annoyance? — grow towards Finnick, Annie can’t help but feel even more annoyed at herself.

Maybe it’s just part of who she is, to have that instinctive tug of resistance when someone reminds Annie that they’re soulmates, pulling back unconsciously when Muscida briefly mentions it, always offhandedly these days, or when Coral theorizes about it, obsessive in a different way to before.

But it’s like she’s twelve again, stubborn and indignant because she wants the person who she ends up with to be her choice,  _hers_  —

Only, she’s angrier than she’s ever been before. She’s had so many outbursts that has surprised her, never expecting that she felt that angry, that defensive —

Everyone knows that Finnick is important to Annie, it’s true that they’re close now, but the knowledge that they were soulmates messed them up, confused them, damaged them both and —

And, it’s… complicated.

 

 

Even now, the situation between them is complicated.

 

 

“Is it?” Finnick says, bemused, like he’s asking about the weather, instead of having bared his heart and soul to her, and completely shattered her preconceived notions about him, deepened her hatred towards the Capitol.

His question feels like a stab in the chest.

Her smile fades, realizing how careless she had just been. Talked without thinking. It had just slipped out.

_Sex is fun._

She can’t take her words back, out in the open, but she can amend them.

Annie breathes out, sand soft under her fingertips, legs absently moving to make the lower half of a sand angel.

“Usually, yeah.”

“Huh, how about that?” Finnick says, and again, there’s that forced levity, that careful lightness that Annie has grown to recognize, and he looks out the sea, and it’s like watching his eyes turn to glass.

“I can tell you some disastrous hook ups though, if that helps?” Annie gets to her feet and offers him a hand. “Some really terrible dates.”

“And here I thought you were a wine and dine kind of gal,” Finnick teases, taking her hand and letting her pull him up.

Annie winks. “Depends which one I’m in the mood for.”

“Annie Cresta,” Finnick gasps, like she’s said something truly outrageous and scandalous, and then she sees his eyes glittering gleefully.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” Annie quips, and wonders if she’s overstepped her boundaries, said something she shouldn’t have. Her sometimes terrible dating life isn’t something that can be equated by what he’s been forced to endure ever since he became a victor.

“Deal,” Finnick says, and Annie can’t help but notice that his eyes are shining something bright. “But we’re going to need to get drunk first.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Annie nods, linking her arm with his, as they walk together to the nearest bar.

 

 

Somehow, and Annie couldn’t tell anyone how it happened, but somewhere along the way, between doing vodka shots and cursing the Capitol a million times under her breath, she agrees to trying out yoga later that week.

 

 

She didn’t know. How could she have not known?

In the strange twilight hours between midnight and dawn, Annie sits cross legged in her bed; hand on her forehead, trying to process it. She can’t sleep, thoughts noisy and vicious, as she goes over what Finnick told her, what Snow had implicated when they talked.

She could have figured it out then, Annie thinks. If she wasn’t so grief stricken and heart broken and self-absorbed, too much of a struggle trying to keep her head up, to keep on treading water and not let herself fall apart completely.

_Snow makes it sound as if…_

As if Finnick was a _thing_ , an object to be used and then thrown away, discarded after interest had been lost.

That’s how her thought should have ended back then on the tour. And she couldn’t, she _wouldn’t_ , because it would have been one more horrible thing to wrap her mind around amid the reliving of her Hunger Games, her hollow victory.

Too late.

She realized too late that it was over before it had even begun.

Maybe Finnick was right, she couldn’t have saved him, then or now, and maybe she would have died had she not been so stubborn, but surely she should have said something? Surely it would have been worth a try?

And now it was too late.

Annie buries her head in her pillow, muffling her scream. _Stupid_. She had been so _stupid._

She can’t help but reflect on her actions, remembering with shame that she had dismissed Finnick at first, and had continued to do so until much later. Without a second thought, it had been so easy to buy into the persona that he so artfully presented, hook, line and sinker, for such a long time.

And then Annie began to spend time with him. Grew to like him, care for Finnick as a friend. Slowly but surely, Annie began to notice inconsistencies, the differences between the two people he tried so hard to be, flittering between the two. Maybe she should have figured it out then, and said nothing, but —

No, like an idiot, she doesn’t connect the dots until he tells her the truth, his eyes wide, skin pale, afraid of how she’ll react.

Years from now, Annie will remember that moment, the very palpable fear in Finnick’s expression, and her heart will ache.

Annie doesn’t get to sleep for a very long time.

 

 

“Morning, dear,” Sophie greets her, the next day. “Sleep well?”

“Not really,” Annie yawns, still tired. “It’s okay, though. I’m pretty sure I can manage the day.”

“Hmm, alright,” Sophie says, inspecting her, and Annie lets her.

She thinks about what she’s learned about Finnick while she gets breakfast, if she can talk someone about it, in loose, vague terms, and comes to the decision that maybe she should give herself more time to process it more. Try and figure out how the conversation might go, without making it obvious that she’s referring to Finnick.

Wonders how much this is going to affect their friendship. He trusts her enough to tell her about what happens to him in the Capitol. In theory, it should only strengthen their bond.

But she can’t help but feel a flutter of nervousness the next time they meet.

“Do you want to go to the market today?” Sophie asks, afterwards, and Annie leaves the tap running, before a meaning look pushes her into turning it off.

“I can do that,” Annie nods, and Sophie prepares a list.

 

 

When she runs into Finnick a couple of days later, she’s not surprised by the fact that he’s sweet talking Amalia, in the vain hopes of a free cup of coffee.

“Hey, Annie,” Finnick says, full of verve and charm and like there’s nothing changed between them. “You’ll convince Amalia right?”

But still, Annie recognizes his subtle nervousness, the tightness of his smile, while he maintains the veneer of a careless fool.

And without a second thought, her resolve is made.

“About what?” Annie asks, casting a glance at Amalia, and it really is like nothing has changed. She knows more about him, true, but that doesn’t stop her from sounding sceptical like she always does, whenever Finnick tries to rope her into some dastardly scheme. “What’s this about?”

“Mister Smooth Talker over here thinks he can get away with not paying for his coffee,” Amalia informs Annie, arms across her chest, and Annie snorts.

“Really?” Annie raises an eyebrow, and looks at him, considering. “Wow, Finn. And how did you think I’d convince Amalia exactly?”

Finnick coughs, does his best personification of innocence. “ _Well_ …”

“You want me to pay for it,” Annie translates, and sheepishly, Finnick nods. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Hey, I paid yours last time!”

“So you did,” Annie remarks, faintly recalling that it’s true. “Alright then. That alright with you, Amalia?”

“Fine by me,” Amalia states with a smile, as she looks at them with amusement. “It’s like a never ending circle with you two. What would you have done with her, Finnick?”

“Probably would have stalled until Mags bailed me out,” Finnick cheerfully admits, and Annie tries to stifle a smirk. Yeah, she can imagine that. “But I got Annie, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Five minutes later, Finnick is insisting to Annie that tomorrow is the perfect time to go to the gym and try out this class.

 

 

“I don’t think I like yoga,” Annie tells Finnick, tossing a stone into the sea, watching it bounce across the water and tries to catch the light. It jumps three times before sinking a valiant death.

“It was your first session,” Finnick says, sounding amused, his turn to throw, and he does so, the sweep of his arm impossibly graceful as always. “Besides, you weren’t so bad.”

“I don’t know about that,” Annie shrugs, a couple of throws later when her initial feels have worn away. She sits down, crossing her legs, and watches the water fold and refold over itself in crashes of white. “I’ll take your word for it, though. How often did you used to go again?”

“Twice a week,” Finnick declares proudly, beaming as the stone throw is a particularly success. He sits beside her, voice warm and soft as he looks at her. “I’m not sure if I’ll stick to that routine.”

“Okay,” Annie nods, and picks up another stone, smooth and round in her hands. She tosses it lightly upward into the air. Thinks about the fact that Muscida did yoga  _every day_  before she catches the stone. How differently Muscida seemed in yoga, mellowed out. She thinks that she likes this side of Muscida Selkirk. “I’ll give a few more sessions. Once a week doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Just think how flexible you’ll be in a couple of sessions,” Finnick teases, waggling his eyebrows.

“Oh, please,” Annie snorts, rolling her eyes. “I’m pretty bendy anyway.”

Finnick smirks, leaning in closer. “Bet I’m bendier.”

“Probably,” Annie agrees, flicking his shoulder. She glances at him, curious to know what his expression is like as she asks him in a blithe tone, “Why’d you stop?”

Finnick says nothing at first, lifting his shoulder and dropping it carelessly. He chooses a pebble and chucks it, eyes tracking the motion, soaring high into the air before plummeting into the water without a single bounce.

“Guess I just fell out of the habit,” Finnick sighs, sounding wistful. “It happens.”

Well, Annie thinks, as she stands up and smoothes out her clothes, she can certainly understand that. But still, there’s a niggling bit of curiosity, and before Annie can stop herself, she asks. “Was it because of the Capitol?”

“Maybe a little,” Finnick admits, quietly. His expression turns faraway, and Annie wishes that she could reach out to him. Protect him, somehow. “Although, not everything I do or don’t is because of the Capitol, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Annie says, trying to take him in, listening to the bite in his voice. She can’t tell if he was trying to aim for flippancy, but she knows that she fucked up and upset him. “I know that, Finn.”

“Okay, just,” Finnick exhales, takes a moment to pause. “I’m just saying.”

“Okay,” Annie says, not knowing what else there is to say. Let’s the awkwardness settle over them. They’ll figure a way through this. It might not be easy, but it’s a friendship that Annie intends to keep, no matter how many mistakes she might make. She’ll do better next time. They’ll communicate. “Hey, are we cool?”

“I want us to be,” Finnick says, slowly, tensing. “I mean, I don’t regret telling you, if that’s what you mean. It’s good that I’m finally able to be honest with you, but…”

 _But,_ Annie echoes in her mind, preparing herself.

“I don’t want things to be different now that you know,” Finnick says, staring determinedly at the water, shoulders tense. “I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you might not want to hang out with me, but I don’t want you to start walking eggshells around me either —”

“I get that,” Annie says, interrupting him as she notices his hands shaking. She can relate to his state of mind, knows what that feels like. It’s been more than a year since she’s turned victor, and still there are people who notice her and immediately shut up, awkwardly glancing at each other, and begin murmuring to each other when she leaves them. People thought they knew her because they witnessed her fall apart in the Games. They thought she was consistently in that state, day in, day out. “I do.”

Looking back, it was definitely one of the reasons why she had avoided her friends in the beginning.

Then, as it turned out, she had nothing to fear, because they treated her exactly the same. Annie had been so grateful.

“I wouldn’t have bought you coffee yesterday if I didn’t want to hang out with you,” Annie feels compelled to answer, thus tackling the next issue. “I know how much you love your coffee.”

“There is nothing quite like coffee,” Finnick tells her, expression softening, relaxing into a smile. “You can thank my dear aunt for that.”

“No way,” Annie snorts, “I don’t think I’ve ever _seen_ Maria ever drink anything at Amalia’s stall.”

“Right, that’s because she’s not a fan of Amalia’s coffee,” Finnick nods, thinking back. “Maria goes elsewhere.”

Annie gasps, teasing him only a little, lowering her voice into a conspiring whisper. “Does she go to… _the library?_ ”

 

 

Yeah, Annie thinks later, it might take a while, but they’ll be okay. She’s sure of it.

 

 

“Seven,” Zeke says, pencil tapping on the table. “I’m pretty sure the number that goes here is seven.”

“Go for it,” Annie says, as her father furiously scribbles the number in, and spends the next five minutes double guessing himself and being uncertain whether he made the right answer or not based on hunches and instinct.

With a month to go, Annie stumbles upon the strange numerical puzzles that Wiress gave her a year ago. She’d filed some out during the Tour, and then placed them away, more than half of them left unfinished. Now though, she feels strangely compelled to fill them out, and if Zeke Cresta wants to help out, the more the merrier.

Sophie Cresta, on the other hand, stares at the number puzzle, silent the entire time, and it’s impossible to tell whether she’s figured it out in her head or it’s impossible to comprehend, before she sets the piece of paper down, walks away and leaves them to it.

“I may have made a mistake with the nine,” Zeke informs her with a huff, prepared to erase all the progress he made, in a worst case scenario. “But  _how?”_

 

 

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that the other victor’s know what happens to Finnick in the Capitol.

It is, somehow.

It makes sense that they know, with the careful comments and meaningful looks shared between each other, the disgust that Librae couldn’t shake off when Finnick mentions that he’s going back the Capitol. Little things like that begin to make so much more sense now that Annie knows.

The realization winds her, leaves her reeling, and Mags takes her hand and they sit in silence, while the victor’s dinner goes on.

“You _knew_ ,” Annie says, eventually, her voice quiet and soft and spun by steel, looking at them one by one seeking — seeing everything that has been left unsaid. “You _all_ knew?”

“Yes,” Mags nods, her face sombre, sadness a permanent fixture in her shoulder, and Annie’s only now beginning to figure out why. It’s always been there, but it’s different now, like an open wound that everyone can see but nobody can heal.

“Why?” Annie’s mouth goes dry, trying to find the words, hoping that someone — anyone — would speak. There is only cotton in the roof of her mouth. “Why didn’t any of you tell me?”

Eventually, Muscida speaks. “It’s not up to us.”

“Muscida’s right. It’s not our story to tell,” Ron says, his voice a low rumble. “We knew, but…”

Annie can see the pity in his eyes, and she wants to scream.

“There’s nothing we can do, Annie,” Ron continues, solemn faced. “We can’t help him.”

“But—”

“You think we don’t  _try_?” Librae stands up, abrupt, hands slamming down on the table, teeth bared. Feral. “Fucking  _hell,_ Annie.  _Fucking hell,_  do you even realize —”

Annie can’t breathe.

Can’t think.

Can’t understand the rest of what Librae is saying, the words from her mouth transformed into noise. Buzzing flies surround and circle her and her chest rises and falls in rapid succession, but no matter how tightly she squeezes her ears, she can hear the buzzing, Philomena’s laughter, the nothingness of noise —

 

 

“Shit,” Ron says, handing her a glass of water, then changes his mind and places it on the table beside her. Just in case she drops it. “How are you feeling, kid?”

Annie doesn’t respond at first, opting to shrug as her answer instead. She sits on Mags’ sofa and exhales heavily, admitting, “Stupid.”

“Huh?”

“I feel stupid,” Annie clarifies, feeling so  _tired_ , all of a sudden, her arms resting on her thighs as she leans forward, gazing at Ron’s shoulder. She doesn’t want to meet his eyes, she avoids his face altogether, afraid to know what expression he feels as he gazes at her.

“Don’t,” Ron says, his gruff voice trying to sound gentle. “Don’t beat yourself up about this, Annie. How were you supposed to know about this? Everyone is supposed to think that Finnick is… well, to use his words… the Great Finnick Odair.”

“How did you know?” Annie asks, heartbroken, staring at him, her cheeks wet.

Ron looks downtrodden.

“I’ve been a victor for a long time, Annie. It’s… easier to catch on at the Capitol once you’re a victor and see how things work over there. They’re not the subtlest of people,” Ron finishes his explanation with a growl, knuckles tightening, a silent fury thrumming within. He pauses, gathering his thoughts, some sense of calming down. Cynicism laces itself with an extra bite. “But they’re still so good at making the districts see what they want to see. It’s so much better for their conscience if it seems like they’re lusting for Finnick and that he goes to them willingly.”

No one talks about the ugly parts of Capitol. They have to be careful, even now, dancing around the subject, and never being able to be as brutal and honest as they’d like.

 _The Capitol makes us into people we’re not_. Finnick’s voice echoes in her mind, and the situation becomes so much graver now. Bleaker.

_They turned you into a mad girl. They turned me into a whore._

Annie closes her eyes, tries to clear her mind, recalling Ron’s warning that happened nearly a year ago. A teardrop falls from her lashes.

“Or something will happen. Like what happened to Jones,” Annie breathes, her voice deadened, resignation weighing her down, and she feels like she’s sinking into the sea. She hates herself for having tunnel vision, for not figuring this out sooner. Snow had inferred it long ago, and she just couldn’t piece the puzzle together. She feels so very stupid. “Someone else is bound to get hurt.”

“They’ll kill to get what they want, and they’ll punish anyone who dares to interfere,” Mags murmurs, her voice low and almost inaudible, her hand holding Annie’s tightly.

She understands now.

“Yeah,” Annie swallows, and looks at them both, regretful about her earlier outburst. “I’m sorry about before.”

“Its fine, kid, we get it,” Ron says, ruffling her hair and letting her know that it’s all good, he doesn’t blame her. “It’s not your fault the way things are. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“I just,” Annie sighs, conceding, her mouth settling into a frown. “I feel so helpless, knowing that I… that  _we_  can’t do anything about it.”

They’re in the same boat, but that doesn’t make Annie feel any better. Her anger isn’t directed at them anymore, but she still feels angry, and she wants to channel her anger at  _something._

 

 

She goes out for a walk to clear her head, meaning to find Muscida and Librae to apologize. Annie doesn’t care that she probably looks like her world has crumbled before her again, but it’s in that state that she meets Finnick’s Aunt Maria.

“Finnick told you, then,” Maria says, breaking the silence and summing her up in a single glance.

Annie doesn’t say anything, it must be that obvious.

“Yeah,” Annie nods, her throat too tight. When she speaks, the words leave her feeling raw, but she perseveres all the same. “A couple of days before he left.”

“Let’s go for a walk,” Maria says, a tad too upbeat to be natural. “I know a place that happens to look really nice at this time of day.”

 

 

The cliffs are grassy with verdant stalks, heather brazen in defiance, the sea crashing against the walls. Annie can understand why Maria likes the view so much.

“I’m glad he told you,” Maria says; watching the azure sea go on for miles and miles without end, the wind merciless. “It wasn’t doing him any favours, bottling up the truth like that.”

“How is he?” Annie asks, the taste of her mouth sour, the knowledge that Finnick is still in the Capitol as they speak.

“Hard to say, but. He’s been… calmer, these past few days,” Maria says, thoughtful. “Not like everything’s better, but, it’s… more bearable, maybe. Something like that.”

“Wish I could feel calm,” Annie sighs. Instead, she’d just been getting angrier, a storm brewing each time she thought about it, sending her into a fury, a deeper loathing for the Capitol, Snow.

“Yeah,” Maria says, exhaling, “I tend to get furious too.”

“How do you live with it?” Annie asks, arms folded over her chest, wishing that she brought a better jacket, it gets so windy up by the cliffs. To have this knowledge each month, knowing that nothing can be done if Finnick wants to keep the people he loves safe.

“It sounds stupid, but, I yell at the sea,” Maria says, glancing shyly at the crashing waves. She sends it a grin. “Childhood habit, I guess, but it’s one that keeps me sane. It helps get everything out. Have you ever done that?”

“I don’t think so, no,” Annie says, slowly, shaking her head. She wonders what her mother would make of that behaviour.

“You should give a go, sometime,” Maria says, a slight smile tilting at the corner of her lips, as she regards her. “I always feel better, afterwards.”

Annie startles. “You mean, like right now?”

“Sure,” Maria smiles, “if you want.”

“Maybe next time I’m by the cliffs, alone,” Annie says, wondering why she just didn’t say  _I’ll pass, thanks_. But it gets a giggle out of Maria Odair, and maybe that’s why. She takes a deep breath, lets the moment pass. “Hey, how do you cope with this?”

Maria doesn’t answer right away.

“I don’t. Not really. I get angry, and then I feel useless because I can’t do anything. I live with the knowledge that if he refuses, someone he cares about will die, and if that happens, Finnick would never forgive himself,” Maria says, grave. “So I try to be plucky, like my favourite heroines, do the best that I can. I support him, no matter what. I promise to be there for him, to take care of him, as much as I am able. Like all the victors do.”

_We keep moving forward. Protect each other the way we know how. You do the best you can._

Mags had said that, at the Seventy-First Hunger Games, and Maria reminds Annie a little bit of Mags now, in this moment.

They’re all struggling, trying to move forward and being thrown back to the wolves and maybe it is imperfect, but it’s all they have.

 

 

Inspiration strikes like the tide, an idea forming in Annie’s mind one day, as she waits. She’s been meaning to make a bracelet for Finnick for weeks, a sign of their friendship; somehow, the design had eluded her.

She has an idea now, something simple and pretty and a mark of her feelings for him.

She’s made several for the other victors, even Muscida, a few months back.

And, well, bracelets —

It’s a hobby of hers that gives her piece of mind.

 

 

When Annie sees him again, relaxed and chatting easily to Amalia at the market stalls, her first instinct is to hug him, wrapping her arms around him. She can’t explain the relief she feels at the sight of him back in District Four.

“Well, hello to you too, Annie,” Finnick says, stiffening, awkwardly patting her on the back, as Amara laughs, surprised, and Annie lets go, pushing away embarrassment. “You’ve never greeted me like this before.”

“Yeah, well,” Annie mumbles, refraining from say that it’s different now, she’d never been quite as worried when he went to the Capitol before, and knowing now changed everything. She scrutinizes him, and doesn’t see any arrogance on his features that she used to. This is Finnick. Her friend. “I was worried about you.”

“Oh,” Finnick says, sincerely touched that it’s a little heart breaking to look at him. He tries to play if off, a shy smile in Amalia’s direction, maybe even a little flustered, and Annie can’t help but feel that maybe she shouldn’t have done that. No matter how well-intended she was trying to be. “I’m fine.”

 

 

“Are you?” Annie asks, a little later, when it’s just them free to be themselves with each other. “Fine, I mean?”

Finnick hesitates, looking conflicted before he answers. “I will be.”

“I shouldn’t have hugged you,” Annie says, troubled, at a loss to explain that she did it without thinking. “Right?”

“I mean,” Finnick exhales, genuinely annoyed. “I don’t mind hugs.”

“But I still shouldn’t have done it,” Annie sighs.

“You’ve never hugged me before,” Finnick points out. “I can’t help but think it’s because of…”

“Yeah,” Annie nods, guilty as charged. Better to be honest. “I think it kinda was too.”

“ _Fuck’s sake_ , Annie,” Finnick spits, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not some fragile thing that needs to be treated delicately each and every fucking time I go to the Capitol!”

“I get that!” Annie holds her ground, freely admitting her mistakes. “I fucked up! I’m sorry! I just acted without thinking!”

“Yeah, well, _don’t,_ ” Finnick glares at her, seething. “And don’t lash out at the other victors either, okay? That is not cool, Annie. _Not cool._ ”

Fuck.

“You heard about that?” Annie mumbles, going bright red. It didn’t happen that long ago, but Annie is already embarrassed by it, even after they all accepted her apologies.

“Mmhm,” Finnick nods, as she cringes. “Mags told me, but Librae spun a much more sensationalized story.”

“Oh, for sure,” Annie mutters, remembering how much grovelling was required. It’s not a stretch to imagine Librae embellishing her outburst, when she’s truly riled and in the mood for bitching. “Being a victor really isn’t what I expected it would be.”

Really, what she knew about being a victor before being a tribute was hardly scratching the surface. The trauma and alienation was one thing, but the sheer underhandedness was something else entirely. It is layers upon layers of politics and lies, glazed with fake smiles and even more fake adoration, and still, Annie doesn’t know if she made the right decision with her deal with Snow, to never return to the Capitol again.

“Yeah, it’s one hell of a learning curve,” Finnick says, taking pity on her. “It was sweet of you trying to defend my virtue, though. I’ll give you props for trying.”

“I wasn’t —” Annie protests, catching Finnick’s eyes, and her cheeks flare up once again. “Librae’s words?”

“Totally Librae’s words,” Finnick smirks, and Annie has a feeling that she won’t get to live this down for a long while. “I’m still mad at you, Annie.”

“That’s fair,” Annie nods, leaving it at that. “But, do you want to get ice cream?”

“We just had coffee,” Finnick points out, “and I paid for yours.”

Annie rolls her eyes. “Such a gentleman. I didn’t ask you to.”

“Yeah, well,” Finnick shrugs, “I wanted to. It was a new blend. Amalia recommended it. I thought I should do a nice and honourable thing. Call it a gesture of good faith, of good  _will_ , even.”

“… you want me to pay for your ice cream, don’t you?” Annie grins, seeing through his sweet talking. “This is payback, isn’t it?”

Finnick beams, obnoxious and smug, perfect just the way he is. “What are friends for?” 

 

 

Yoga gets better. Or: she likes yoga the more she practises it.

Annie wasn’t prepared in the first session, and honestly, she fares little better in the next couple of sessions but — something changes. Slowly but surely, Annie begins to feel more relaxed and centred, kind of like how gardening with Ron grounded her.

“I feel so mellow,” Annie admits, breathing out, hands on her hips as she smiles at Muscida. “I can see why you like it so much.”

“And you were going to give it up,” Finnick teases, while Muscida chuckles, indulgent, amused.

“I _wasn’t_ ,” Annie insists, cheeks flushing, “I said that I wasn’t sure about it. Not the same thing.”

“Well, I’m glad you gave it a chance,” Muscida says, warmly.

Annie nods, all the tension in her body gone. 

“Me too.”

 

 

With her project of trying to renovate the garden put on hold, waiting until spring to plant the seeds, Annie busies herself by other means.

There’s yoga with Finnick and Muscida once a week, there’s babysitting Mags’ grandkids that happens once or twice a fortnight, and there’s evenings spent with Librae and Coral and playing darts, which is not so different to knife throwing and picking up someone who catches their eye. Intermittently, Annie works on Finnick’s bracelet, tongue sticking out as she tries to figure out what’s missing.  

She goes on walks with her mother, and helps her father at sea.

She takes Gwen up on her offer, and they go running together once a week, cursing each other forward, or motivating each other in silence, depending on the mood they’re in. There’s plenty of huffing and puffing when the going gets rough. Even though Gwen runs more than just once a week, Annie is appreciative of the fact that they’re are doing this healthy exercise together.

(That’s a lie, Annie kind of hates running, hates that it’s healthy exercise, but the part that happens when it’s over makes it almost worth it.)

They weren’t very close growing up, a few conversations here and there, and usually with Coral accompanying them, but Annie likes that they’ve formed their own friendship later in life.

Afterwards, they go have a milkshake at Jules’ cafe, because if anyone deserves a reward for running, it’s them, okay? It’s totally them. They’ve earned that milkshake with a strawberry on top.

And, of course, Annie reads, fleetingly, picking up the book that tells the adventures of the strange hero named Thomas Quash, pursuing the tale for a few pages before leisurely closing the story once more.  

 

 

“I’ve been thinking,” Coral says, meeting Gwen and Annie at Jules’ cafe, radiant at the sight of them after their run. Annie had a feeling that Coral would eventually talk about Annie’s soulmate sooner or later. She always has this particular tone when she was about to talk about Annie’s potential soulmate, and Annie recognizes it before Coral even mentions Finnick. Which she does, a second later. “Finnick’s really nice.”

“He can be,” Annie remarks dryly, only slightly wary, smiling nonetheless. She thinks about the last time she hung out with Finnick, when he’d drank too much coffee and was too jittery in the library and even Librarian-In-Training Sarah couldn’t help but giggle and then tried to mask her amusement with a stern glower. “Is he what you expected?”

There’s a double meaning in that, and Coral catches it instantly. Coral and Finnick have met a few times since their initial meeting.

“For you?” Coral parries back instantly, lowering her voice, as they pick a table to sit out. It’s not actually a secret between the three of them, but it’s best to avoid the word soulmate as a precaution. Just in case.

Resentfully, Annie can’t help but think that she might have walked into that one.

“Yeah,” Annie says, heaving out all the air from her lungs. “Why not?”

“No,” Coral says, instantly, entwining her hand with Gwen. “I thought that you’d have someone… well, I always assumed that it would be someone stubborn but reliable. They would make you laugh with their stupid jokes and make you happy.”

“But would they argue?” Gwen chimes in, with an impish grin.

“Ooh, good point! Yes! Every day,” Coral decides with obvious enjoyment, her free hand resting under her chin, humming in thought, clearly not done with her tangent. This story has been years in the making, Annie suspects, with only now that Annie is willing to listen. “ _Or so it would seem._  There was always  _something_  you could argue about, usually something petty, never really a make-it-or-break-it argument. It would be really clear at a moment’s notice to know that the two of you loved each other dearly.”

Always the romantic. Always destined to be in love.

“Girl or boy?” Annie asks, eventually, slurping her milkshake extra loudly because she knew that it got on Coral’s nerves.

She’s never asked Coral about her thoughts on her own potential soulmate, always preferring to dismiss it when Coral rounded on her own. Annie had no problem with talking about Coral’s soulmate, back then, but she had no patience for her own, figuring it pointless. These days, Annie doesn’t have the heart to be so dismissive, since she’s found her soulmate, and there’s no harm in thinking up possibilities, of finding out what her best friend thought her soulmate might have been before it definitely was Finnick Odair.

It is what it is. Finnick Odair is her soulmate, and she tries to let that little detail not affect her.

And, perhaps it’s hypocritical of Annie to say, but it’s nice to see Coral going overactive with her imagination. She’s missed Coral being invested in soulmates, spinning strange yarns out of them, the countless possibilities that Annie would inevitably shoot down without a second thought.

But then, Coral never has been able to completely regain her enthusiasm for soulmates meeting, and Annie is sorry about that.

“I could never decide,” Coral admits, scrunching her nose, sunlight shining on her flaxen hair. “Boy mostly, but a few times, girl.”

“Huh,” Annie says, nonchalant. “That doesn’t sound too bad. Thanks, Coral.”

She pauses.

“Wait, would I have fallen in love with them?” 

Coral’s cheeks pinken. “Um, well, back then, I would have without a doubt, said  _of course_. But if you’re asking me now—”

“I’m asking.”

“— maybe. I don’t… I don’t think you’d have to necessarily avoid them forever, but I feel like with your soulmate in your life, life might be a bit brighter. I still kind of want to say yes, because that would be romantic, but I mean. The soulmate I thought you might have and you _could_ be the best of friends. That’s a distinct possibility.”

“If only that soulmate existed,” Annie deadpans, smirking at Gwen. “If only you’d told me about that one sooner.”

“Not like you would have actually listened to me, right?” Coral snickers, and Annie grins, guilty as changed.

“You got me there,” Annie raises both of her hands, a gesture of defeat that none of them can take seriously.

 

 

A fortnight before the tour begins, Annie shows up on Librae’s door.

“Hey, so,” Annie begins, because she’s pretty sure that yoga isn’t doing the trick, but alcohol most certainly will. They’ll keep the nightmares away. “Want to get shit-drunk?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Librae remarks, the cut of her mouth curling upwards. 

 

 

“Come on, Finn,” Librae says, leaning in, glancing at the person who hasn’t noticed her yet. “Be an awesome wingman for me.”

“Hmm,” Finnick says, thinking about it, and following her gaze to spot the person that Librae would like to fuck. “Oh, you sure know how to pick ‘em. Very cute. How do you that I won’t steal him instead?”

Finnick winks at Annie and she snorts into her drink. Convincing him to join them was a wonderful idea.

“Don’t you  _dare_ ,” Librae changes her expression into a glare, staring at him in mock-annoyance. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Alright, fine, I won’t,” Finnick concedes, before he tilts his head, and asks her in an almost seductive voice. “Say I go up to him. What’s in it for me?”

At this, Librae sits up and straighten her shoulders, mouth baring all her teeth.

“I’m so glad you’ve finally asked. The next time you see someone you like, me and Annie will be  _your_  wing women  _and_  give you a glowing review.”

“It’ll probably be the hardest challenge we’ve ever faced,” Annie says solemnly, sighing loftily when Finnick stares incredulously at the both of them. She shakes her head, slow, dramatic, revelling in the moment, and trying to stifle the urge to crack up. “But we’re victors; we can survive anything, so for  _you_ , Finnick, we’ll do  _our_ best.”

“You’d better,” Finnick says, eyes narrowed, pointing at them both, before he heads off to spark a conversation, and leaves Librae and Annie to dissolve into giggles.

 

 

“How are you feeling, kid?” Ron asks, in the morning, as they walk over stretches of land, a windy beach on a cloudy day, grey chalk smeared over sky blue. They march forward, persevering, holding tight to their coats.

Ron likes this part, anyway, this season, this defiance of nature, the fierce uncontrollable aspect of something that exists and is beyond even the Capitol’s limits. They can make death happen if they don’t get their way, and they can control the weather inside the Arena, but not here, out in the districts. Here, it’s a losing battle, no matter how they might want to; they can only dress for the occasion.

Annie tastes the sea salt breeze on her lips.

“Nervous,” Annie admits, running her tongue over her teeth. “I never thought I’d get this far.”

“None of us do, if I’m being honest, but somehow it happens. We live another year, and then a year after that,” Ron says, gruff. “The more things change. The tour isn’t so different from before you were a victor, really. The camera won’t focus on you, since you’re not this year’s winner.”

“That’s a relief,” Annie says, blithely. She doesn’t think she could make herself behave the way she did six months ago. She accomplished what Snow wanted of her, and now she can’t wash her hands clean of it.

Just like any other tour. Annie thinks back to the previous times the tour reaches District Four. There’s singing and dancing and drinking and the unavoidable deep sadness of loss.

She wants to visit Neptune again, talk to him about what’s happened since. It’s nearly been a year, and Annie still can’t believe it.

“So what changes?” Annie asks instead, taking a breath and puts her grief away for another time. “What fun things do victors do when their district isn’t being visited by the new victor?”

“On the travelling days? You can do whatever you want. Most of us are helping Maria move into Librae’s house though,” Ron says, hands deep in his pockets. 

“Oh,” Annie says. It sounds stupid, but since Ron and Librae live together, it’s easy to forget that Librae has her own house in Victor’s Village and doesn’t use it. “Is that allowed?”

“Don’t see why not. Librae’s alive, not using it, and is fine with Maria residing there, so there shouldn’t be any problem,” Ron shrugs, and that answers that. “You want to help?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Annie nods. It’s something to do to pass the time. Before being a victor, she would just spend the travel days with her friends, playing by the docks. But she likes Maria, and she wants to help. “So what about on the days that aren’t travel days?”

When the wind quietens, Ron answers. “What we tend to do is go to each other’s houses and watch the tour together.”

“Family too?” Annie can’t help but ask.

“Warts and all,” Ron sighs, exaggerating, and that makes Annie laugh.

“Oh hell,” Annie stops, abruptly coming to a standstill. “I can’t even imagine what Muscida’s place is like, let alone family.”

Ron looks at her, a mixture of amusement and exasperation and pride. A quiet smile plays on his lips, like he’s not sure whether to take her seriously or not.

In a droll voice, he asks, “You’ve met Muscida’s soulmate Julian, right?”

“Um,” Annie blinks, hesitating. She hadn’t even known that Julian was Muscida’s soulmate’s  _name._

Come to think about it, when Muscida talked about soulmates, he had never actually talked about his own. It really wasn’t much of a stretch to assume that Muscida  _had_  found his soulmate and  _was_  happy and in love with that person, and that was why he advocated soulmates so frequently. Either that, or he was still waiting for his, even though Ron had dismissed the latter possibility just now.

 _Had_  she met Julian?

Grimacing, Annie tentatively opens her mouth. “… does he own a cafe?”

 

 

“No,” Jules cackles, ticked pick when Annie asks him the first second she gets, slightly out of breath and staring at Jules with wide eyes if  _he is Muscida Selkirk’s soulmate._  “I can see why you’d think that, but  _no.”_

“Oh, thank goodness,” Annie all but collapses with relief, head resting on the counter as she tries to regain her breath. All that running, she’s worn herself out. When she notices Ron glancing at her with bemusement, Annie glowers. “You really scared me there, Ron.”

“I never — when _did I say it was him?”_  Ron scoffs, derisive, full of scorn. “Come on, Annie.”

“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” Annie says, weakly, still gasping, chest heaving. Her heart is hammering in her chest, like a hummingbird, unable to slow down. The roof of her mouth is cotton as she stares at him, accusingly, hurt. “You owe me  _cake.”_

It is, in retrospect, not her finest moment.

“No, I don’t!” Outraged, Ron retorts, bemusement quickly transforming into angry bafflement and indignation.

“If I was mistaken to be Muscida Selkirk’s soulmate, I’d want cake too,” Jules says, deprecatingly, some abstract part of the conversation that filters through the background noise. “Nothing against him, but, I really like my own soulmate, thanks. So, what are you in the mood for, Annie? Chocolate cake?”

“Please,” Annie nods, pushing every last particle of air from her lung. “I’ve never been so happy to be wrong in my entire life.”

“I’ll bet,” Ron says, watching her warily, as he finally takes a seat.

“Thanks,” Annie says, after Jules hands out the slices of cake, and ignores Ron’s comment, preferring to distract herself by regaining energy. She finishes her slice and looks back up at him and asking. “So what  _is_  Jules short for?”

“Julius,” Jules answers with a grin, looking down his nose at her. “Julius Torchwick is the longer version. You feeling any better?”

“Much,” Annie sighs with relief, her head lightheaded with bliss.

It’s the tastiest chocolate cake she’s ever eaten in her life.

“This is _ridiculous_ ,” Ron mutters, lowering his face into his palm, “I cannot believe this happened.”

 

 

“Did you not think,” Ron asks, later, as they trek back to Victor’s Village, glancing at her sideways, utter incredulity in every angle, “that he looked a little  _young_  for Muscida?”

Annie shrugs, noncommittal. She doesn’t really have a response for that, at least one that doesn’t make her look like a total idiot.

Then again, lately, it seems like she’s been making one mistake after another, just because she didn’t know any better, and in retrospect, really should have.

Honestly, Annie had no idea how old Jules was, and knowing Muscida, Annie doesn’t think the age difference wouldn’t have mattered. Muscida would have waited, Annie supposes, now that she has to think about it  _like that_ , if they hadn’t met when they were both adults. Muscida Selkirk was full to the brim of the conviction that soulmates end up together. He was the type of person that would wait all his life to meet and fall in love with his. He wouldn’t mind waiting a little longer, had that been the case.

At least, Annie thinks that’s how it probably would go, because it seemed like something Muscida would do, if that really was the story of how Muscida met Julian.

“I didn’t think about that,” Annie meekly admits, her cheeks embarrassingly warm.

“You don’t say,” Ron deadpans, completely unimpressed.

 

 

Librae has the  _biggest_ shit-eating grin on her face when Ron tells her.

“Oh, that is  _gold_ , Annie,” Librae guffaws, and Annie is _mortified_ , cheeks flaring up at the depth of her mortification. “Pure and utter  _gold.”_

“You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?” Annie mutters, looking away, and wishing that her face didn’t feel like it was being set on fire.

“I just — ” Librae’s shoulders shake, and the laughter is back, and for a second, a minute, an hour, Librae is the comprised essence of unadulterated gigglish  _glee_. “I’m trying to imagine it — and I  _can’t.”_

"I —” Annie pleads, as Librae only laughs harder at the thought. “I made a mistake —”

“No, Annie, you made something  _wonderful_ ,” Librae shrieks, not even trying to stifle her laughter, as she looks at Annie with fondness. “I love it, Annie, I love  _you_.”

 

 

Drinks are on Librae, that night.

 

 

“Wow,” Finnick says, and that’s all he has to say for Annie to know that  _he knows._

Word spreads alarmingly quickly, much to Annie’s dismay.

“Oh no,” Annie says, fighting the blush, the hangover headache, trying to rile up her irritation instead. The time for being embarrassed is fucking  _gone._  “Not you too!”

“I am in awe,” Finnick smirks, and that’s  _it_ , he’s got to stop  _talking_. “Of your —”

“Nope,” Annie says, rushing to silence him, pinching his mouth shut so not another word comes out. “You do not get to say  _that_ word.”

He raises his brow, the perfect innocent guise of innocence on his perfect face. It’s an effect that’s slightly marred by the smushed lips currently in Annie’s possession.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Annie rolls her eyes, no-nonsense. “You know  _exactly_  what I’m talking about. So, nod or blink once for yes.”

Finnick blinks once.

Annie releases her hand.

“Well, I  _was_  going to say  _brilliance_ ,” Finnick  _lies_ , a lying  _liar_ who is  _continuing to lie_ , “but if you  _insist_ , I am also in awe of your _nefariousness_ too.”

“ _You’re_  nefarious,” Annie retorts, glaring, “and stupid and awful and I don’t like you  _at all.”_

On some level, Annie knows, he’s doing this just to for her reaction. But that doesn’t mean she can stop herself from  _reacting._

“Now that we’ve got  _that_  established,” Finnick quirks a grin, still gazing at her with such warm affection, like he finds her childish outburst charming. “Shall we go meet Muscida’s Julian?”

“Yeah, okay,” Annie agrees with a sigh, all her crabbiness washing away in waves. “Might as well.”

 

 

Meeting Julian Boer, Muscida Selkirk’s soulmate, is kind of anti-climactic.

He is a gentle looking man with dark brown hair streaked grey and has blueish eyes that seem green depending on how the light is. There’s a mole above his left eyebrow. He is a man who specializes in pies, and puts his heart and soul into each and every one, though he’s happy to assure people that he can cook other food just as well. He wears an apron that features pumpkins, and lastly, Julian Boer has an air of serene disposition about him.

“Annie Cresta,” Julian says with a smile, eyes lighting up as she and Finnick enter his shop, The Pier, recognizing her instantly. “It’s so good to finally meet you. Muscida has told me such wonderful things about you.”

 

 

Julian Boer’s pies, Annie informs her parents that evening, raving, are  _incredible._

 

 

Annie spends most of the week that builds up to the Victory Tour with her parents. She goes out to the sea with her father, helping him catch fish, or goes to the market with her mother to catch up on gossip from Thetis. Occasionally, she’ll spend an afternoon with Mags and her grandkids, and meets Edith for the first time, when all of them are furiously trying to knit something reasonable.

Annie is trying to make a scarf that contains three alternating colours, and it’s fiddly at the worst of time, just trying to keep  _count._

Mags is knitting snakes, because of course, she puts them all to shame with such grace and ease.

“It takes practice,” Edith says, smiling fondly at Erin and Scott, who have far less patience than Annie does, and kindly doesn’t mention to her children that they’ve dropped a few stitches and bungled up the attempt of making a scarf of one colour.

“You lost your temper a few times when you were young, dear,” Mags comments, her eyes smiling, and Edith’s shoulders stiffen like she’s been scolded instead of teased.

“Yes, well, mother,” Edith says, flustered, shoulders becoming pointier the more she talked, like a windup toy, the tension building and building and building. “I used to lack the attention span for it. I don’t any longer. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Mags agrees, mildly.

 

 

“Hey, Jones,” Annie says, umbrella in hand, the air thick with anticipation of an oncoming storm, “I can’t believe it’s been a year without you.”

 

 

She finishes the second book of the series that Finnick likes so much,  _The Madcap Adventures of Thomas Quash_ , and wonders if Marinette Winters really is Thomas Quash’s match.

When Annie expresses her doubts to Finnick, he gasps.

“You didn’t like their banter?” Finnick says, hurt, and Annie doesn’t know whether she should take him seriously or not.

“I did,” Annie says, slowly, blinking, slightly taken aback by the question and not really sure how she’s meant to respond. She didn’t mind their interaction; they were very witty to each other. She shrugs. “I just didn’t think that Marinette was Thomas’ match.”

Finnick makes a gesture, like she’s just broken his heart, palm outstretched over his chest, and it’s such a caricature of disappointment that Annie can’t help but stare at him, bemused by his behaviour.

“Read the next book,” Finnick says, pouting, just a little, “and then  _tell me_ you’ve changed your mind when you finish it.”

Annie arches her brow. “Even if it’s a lie?”

Finnick declares, emphatic. “ _Especially_  if it’s a lie.”

 

 

“I’m really good friends with Finnick these days,” Annie says, to Teddy’s grave. “Not that I was questioning your judgment when you idolized him, Teddy,  _obviously_. But. Maybe you had a point, after all.”

 

 

They take it in turns going to each other’s houses to watch the tour, just like Ron told her. As crammed as the living room becomes, that becomes part of the fun. 

(There’s a lot of sniping and reminiscing about victors, which Annie knows she will never get to be part of, having been essentially exiled from the Capitol. Her only chances of knowing the other victors are her fleeting memories during the tour and second hand stories told by the District Four victors.)

District Twelve is at Mags’, District Eleven is at Muscida’s, District Ten is at Ron and Librae’s, District Nine is at Finnick’s, District Eight is at Annie’s, and so the cycle begins again.

On the non-tour days, everyone does their best to help Maria and her beau move into Librae’s originally designated house. Ron takes Annie aside, and they start plotting how they could potentially restore the garden, if they were ever given the chance.

 

 

“It’s your turn,” Librae says, on the morning that Johanna Mason is supposed to visit District Four. She takes the book out of Annie’s hands and snaps it shut without Annie memorizing the page number.

 _“Hey!”_  Annie says, staring at her now empty hands, before Librae’s words register, and she looks at Librae, confused. “My turn for what?”

“To collect Odair from his routine of trying to find himself at sea. Which happens often, but only matters to us once every six months because we have to play babysitter and fetch him for those two _very special_ occasions,” Librae recites, rolling her eyes. “So, as the newest victor, I hereby decree that it’s your turn.” 

“Oh,” Annie says, for lack of anything else to say, letting the information settle and it falls into place. ”Alright, I can do that. Does Finnick have a particular spot he likes to go to?” 

“As a matter of fact,” Librae drawls, “he  _does._ ”

 

 

Librae ends up taking Annie there, instead of just giving directions. Which is fine, Librae informs her with a lazy drawl, since it’s usually two victors there to collect Finnick, and frogmarching him to wherever the situation calls for. Even if it a situation that nobody likes, it’s one last moment for their complaints and steeling themselves up for the rest of the awful day.

(Librae doesn’t really explain it in those exact terms, but that’s the gist of it.)

“So, now what?” Annie turns to Librae as their stand on the pier, Finnick’s boat visible and out at sea. “We just… yell at him and tell him to get over her?”

“Pretty much,” Librae huffs, her arms folded over her chest, ringlets of gold tumbling over her ears, her expression one of typical bored annoyance. “And then we drag him to the station to greet Johanna Mason. Easy, right?”

“Sure,” Annie nods, cupping her hands to her mouth. “Hey, Finnick!  _Finnick!_  We've got to go meet the new victor!”

“Be right there!” Finnick calls back, taking hold of his oars.

“That was easy,” Annie remarks, blinking. She thought it would be more difficult — Librae had acted as if it was a hassle, although in fairness, Librae has had to collect Finnick plenty of times in the past, whereas it’s a new first for Annie. Still, Annie can’t see what the big fuss was about.

All they have to do now is wait.

“Mm, I guess,” Librae says, distractedly, her mouth pulled into a scowl, clearly unhappy with something. “It’s just one day but… hey, are you going to be okay today, Cresta?”

“Yeah,” Annie answers, pausing before she turns. “Why?”

“You’re not going to try and be the mad girl?” Librae presses, eyes intent, careful, scrutinizing _._  “No stunts like at the reaping?”

“Don’t need to,” Annie shakes her head. She’s been established as the mad girl, there’s no need for a repeat performance. Hopefully she would be ignored and left alone because of it. “I think all I have do now is stand still, look pretty. Easiest thing in the world, right?”

“Right,” Librae says, softly, her shoulders relaxing. “I just needed to check.”

“Were you worried about me?” Annie smiles, touched.

“As if, Cresta,” Librae frowns, before raising her voice. “Hurry it up, Odair!”

“Yeah, yeah!” Finnick calls back. “I’m coming, my darling!”

“Every fucking time,” Librae rolls her eyes in response. “I swear my headaches are all because of you.”

 

 

They all live with the reminder that comes with the horror of the Games, the knowledge that someone new has survived against all odds and joined them, lived what they’ve been through, and are struggling with coping, even after the good days exist again.

No one understands each other quite like a victor does.

 

 

It’s not different to her own tour, Annie realizes, as she waits with all the District Four victors for the newest victor to emerge. The only differences being that she’s here to greet them instead, she’s here to show off District Four instead, she’s here to not be the centre of attention and fleeting learn about the victor. For the rest of her life, she will only have snapshots, glimpses of what they might be like, instead of meeting them properly at the Capitol.

The spotlight rests on her fleetingly, possibly since she was last year’s victor, and quickly moves on.

Annie has become part of the decoration now, some part of the background that slips into the corner of people’s eyes and never quite registers.

Johanna Mason doesn’t say much to District Four. Her muted disdain speaks volumes, however.

 

 

In the late afternoon, the party begins, and the people sing, and Annie can’t help but smile when she joins in with the sailor’s songs.

It’s almost like a trick, Annie thinks. The victors have to trick themselves to a state of mind where it seems. Like they’re actually celebrating the newest member of their group, and pretending that this party that glorifies their district for a day isn’t some sick scheme to remind them that even outside of the Capitol. Its claws are sunken bone deep, felt keenly by all.

 

 

“So, you’re my predecessor,” Johanna Mason says, a spitfire of a girl whose anger could scorch the earth if she seethed enough.

Light glints at the curl of the sea, the water dark and menacing, and Annie pushes one last ship out to sea, a candle placed at the centre. Annie stands up and swivels, wondering what is to be expected of her now.

Is she to be some mad girl who will never resurface from the watery depths of District Four?

“I suppose I am,” Annie says, carefully, soft, her hands tangled in her hair, curved against the nape of her neck.

“The  _mad_  victor,” Johanna hisses, derisive, swaying as she steps closer, unsteady. Annie sees her clearly in the dimmed light, understands the hate she bears at anyone and everything, anger sharpening the angle of her face. Johanna Mason stares at everyone with such loathing that it’s almost too easy to overlook the hollowness inside unless you live with it. Almost mistake it for your own.

Annie shrugs, ignoring the scrutiny, flicking her wild tresses of hair over her shoulders. She says, simply, “We’re different kinds of madness.”

“I’m not  _mad,”_ Johanna draws her lips back, and Annie recognizes this girl from the Arena, scathing and ruthless and driven by desperation to keep herself afloat. She has nothing to lose, but she’s still losing. Beneath the anger is brittleness and tenacity and a spiteful willpower that seethes in a barely controlled rage warped by liquor. “I’m not  _you.”_

Annie raises her eyebrow, saying nothing as she stares at the newest victor.

She’s unsettled people like this before, watched them become even more unsettled the longer the silence lingers and Annie refuses to say anything.

Instead, she reveals shark white teeth, sharpened by Mags’, because this is what the first victor of District Four is so very, very good at, turning them all into cold blooded sharks. Annie holds Johanna’s gaze.

Maybe she’ll remember this in the morning. Maybe she won’t.

Before Annie leaves Johanna to her thoughts, Annie deliberates asks in a quiet voice. “Aren’t you?”

It won’t be long before the cameras find their newest victor again.

 

 

“Didn’t you promise me a dance?” Finnick teases, when she finds him, his hand outstretched, and Annie entwines their fingers together so easily.

“I believe I did,” Annie grins, and the music that plays is soft and sweet like the lure of sea, push-pulling at their back of their minds.

The breeze touches the curve of her shoulder; Finnick’s hand fits comfortably on the small of her back.

“How are you feeling?” Finnick asks, twirling her around.

“Like I could dance all night,” Annie replies, as she spins into his chest. It’s not entirely the truth, but she wouldn’t mind dancing a little longer with Finnick.

Here, she thinks, she could let herself believe that she isn’t what the Capitol wants her to be. For two days a year, Annie will be seen as nothing more than the alleged mad girl, noticed and then avoided, the reputation gained in order for Annie to escape the horrors of having to go back to the Capitol. She’d been so desperate, so glad that she’d been given a way out that she’d taken it, regardless of the consequences, regardless that it would isolate her from the other victors.

She’s luckier than most, Annie supposes —   _knows_ , to be an outcast, but it’s exhausting and alienating and it was her choice to make, and now she will never shake the reputation she’s gained in order to survive in the aftermath.

Annie smiles up at Finnick, gentle. “The company helps too.”

She can  _feel_  his smile, the way his mouth curves upwards more than she can see it.

“I am pretty great,” Finnick preens, smugness evident in his tone of voice. “But then, Annie Cresta, so are you.”

“Thanks, Finn,” Annie says, cheeks growing warm. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” Finnick answers, his voice unexpectedly soft, like he didn’t expect her to return the question right back at him.

Somewhere along the way, minutes or hours, Annie’s not sure when, they stop dancing and Annie’s hand is still enclosed in his.

“Do you have to go to the Capitol?” Annie asks, tentative, not sure if she has the right to ask. So she asks while their faces are darkly lit, shrouded in darkness, and they can’t completely see each other’s expressions. Her tongue presses against her teeth, and she suppresses the knowledge, the thought that there’s nothing she  _can_  do if he is, anyway.

“No,” Finnick confides, and Annie can breathe again, relaxing minutely.

“Glad to hear it,” Annie says, relief swelling within her when Finnick returns her smile. “You were pretty intimidating over there.”

“You think I’d scare her?” Finnick teases, sounding entertained by the idea, and Annie snorts.

That’s not what she meant at all.

“I’m pretty sure she’d just think you were a prig,” Annie informs Finnick, cheerfully blunt.

(She could have said other things: like Librae was worried at that weird time between midnight and morning, and only later did her behaviour and Snow’s comments finally make  _sense,_ after Finnick disclosed his past. 

She could have said that she might have been able to figure it out then, if only she’d stopped to  _think_ , instead of feeling homesick and consumed by grief. 

She could have said that when she met him at the Capitol, that night, she didn’t think he made  _sense_ , the way the Great Finnick Odair has never made sense to her.)

“Some people find that very endearing about me, I’ll have you know,” Finnick comments breezily, with a pointed glance at her. Like he’s caught her using a word that is thrown about constantly — affectionately — in the book series that she’s reading.

Annie squashes the instinct to step on his foot.

“I wonder who they could possibly be,” Annie snarks, rolling her eyes. “Nobody I know, that’s for sure.”

“Mmhm,” Finnick clucks his tongue, and Annie steps back, disengaging from his familiar frame.

“C’mon,” Annie says, hooking her arm with his. “We gotta get to a better place to see the fireworks.”

“I happen to know just the place,” Finnick grins, taking it all in stride.

 

 

“Here,” Annie says, taking out the bracelet that she’s been working on for weeks on end, trying to get it right. She finally decided on something simple, pearls and seashells and an F that is painted green. “I made this for you.”

“I was wondering when you’d make me one,” Finnick says, beaming, then adds. “Thanks, Annie, it’s amazing.”

Annie’s cheeks pinken. “You… you knew about my bracelets?”

“It’s not a secret, is it?” Finnick looks at her, bemused. “Word gets around pretty fast.”

It’s not, only — Annie’s never felt self-conscious about her hobby before.

He’s right too. Word does get around fast. It’s like a gossip mill in Victor’s Village, and every time Annie does something embarrassing or otherwise, all the victors seem to know about it before she has the chance to explain what happened.

“No,” Annie stammers out. “That’s not it. I just… wanted to surprise you.”

“You _did_ ,” Finnick says, and he sounds utterly delighted. “But did you really think I wouldn’t notice that most people in Victor’s Village wear bracelets, when I myself, am an avid bracelet wearer.”

Annie blinks. 

“Plus, Librae has been bragging about it for months,” Finnick explains, oblivious, and Annie figures that she probably should have come to this conclusion sooner. “She’s been very happy about rubbing in my face that she’s got bracelets made by you and I haven't.”

“I was getting around to it!” Annie declares, indignantly, self-consciousness giving way to annoyance. It is, she’ll acknowledge later, much to his amusement, a little bit whingy. “I just… they’re special, and I only make it to people I… really care about.”

“Well,” Finnick says, and she can tell from his voice that he’s trying not to smile, but he still sounds so endeared that alone makes Annie swallows, her throat thick. “It was worth the wait. And just so you know, I care about you too.”

Annie asks, holding her bracelet up. “May I?”

“Of course,” Finnick holds out his hand, dainty, as Annie slides the bracelet onto his wrist, and he looks at it admiringly.

“I did pretty great, didn’t I?” Annie says, grinning impishly, on the cusp of laughter. Pride bursts, explodes like the fireworks that soar and spin and blossom in pretty lights and colours, and she  _does_  laugh then, her face turned towards the spectacle, content to watch the show, Finnick by her side.

Afterwards, they spend so much time talking about anything and everything that it becomes daybreak somewhere along the way, and it’s never been more precious.

 

 

“Thank you,” Annie murmurs, embracing her father first and then her mother the moment she sees them.  _For being here with me._

She doesn’t know what she would do if she lost them.

“Any time, love,” Zeke says, holding her tight.

“I love you so much,” Annie says, and it’s important she thinks, even if her mind is a little deprived of sleep, that she needs to tell her parents that she loves them.

“Always,” Sophie smiles, her hand resting tenderly on Annie’s cheek.

 

 

She spends the days that don’t focus on the last three districts with Erin and Scottie, Erin obsessed with playing hairdresser and experimenting styles with Annie’s hair while Annie reads the third book about Thomas Quash, and Scottie sketches some stick figures, labelled by all as art when they stumble upon them.

Annie can’t be sure, but one of them looks like they’re holding a trident. It might just be a very large fork.

“You want to try?” Scottie asks, perking up when he notices Annie watching him, instead of the television where Johanna is being interviewed by Caesar.

“I’m pretty terrible at drawing, but, sure,” Annie says, closing her book and putting it to one side.

“Now this I  _have_  to see,” Librae chimes in, smirking as Erin makes finishing touches to her plaits.

“You’re drawing as well, right?” Annie dryly retorts.

“Damn right I am,” Librae shoots back in less than a blink of an eye, and winks, which shouldn’t catch Annie off guard because Librae can be ridiculously competitive sometimes, but it  _does._

“Alright then,” Annie says, jerking her chin and nodding, gazing around the living room. “What do you suggest we draw?”

“Me! Me! Me!”

Both Erin and Scottie exclaim excitedly, the only compromise made is that they both get drawn. For the last few days, the attention on the television slowly becomes ignored as more and more drawing competitions happen and consume them. By the time Johanna Mason returns to District Seven, everyone has become mostly distracted and are bickering about how the fictional characters Thomas Quash and Penny Prenderghast should really look like.

Annie wonders if this is what happens each year, the victors slowly losing interest and by the end they don’t even  _try_ , the reminder of what the Capitol does for them a desperate attempt to be background noise.

When she asks Mags, Mags mostly laughs, and says, “We try.”

 

 

“Your hair needs cutting,” Coral says, her mouth twisting in distaste, eyeing the wild tresses of hair that curl around the nape of Annie’s neck.

“It’s fine,” Annie says, mildly defensive.

Her hair may have been cut short for the Games, but honestly, Annie’s been thinking about growing her hair long again. It reminds her of seaweed clinging to her back when it’s wet and she’s stepping out of the shower.

It feels a little bit like rebellion, letting it grow loose.

It made sense in her head. Back then, when she let them cut as much hair as they wanted, Annie had been so certain of her impending death in the Arena, and she hadn’t cared what she looked like. She was dead already even before stepping into the Arena, it didn’t matter what she wanted.

Then she survived, and Victoria had spent a lot of tour staring at her, wondering how best to make her appearance suit the image of one who was drowning by degrees. She experimented; Annie’s fish scale dress six months in the making, and dabbling in makeup and cutting away particular locks of hair to further enhance that look. 

Not cutting it, making it look wild and unkempt — well, Annie believes in hindsight, it kind of solidified the whole mad girl charade. Such a change from the girl who let everything be stripped away from her, now she was someone who looked like they had fallen apart on a stage.

Mostly, though, to avoid those problems, she’d tied her hair back. It did the trick well enough.

“It needs to be tidier,” Coral insists, muttering to herself, reaching out instinctively to touch Annie’s hair, easily threading her fingers through brown tresses. She frowns at Annie. “I can give it some shape, too. Make it seem less… ragged. When’s the last time you had it cut?”

Annie thinks back, drawing blanks.

She’s fairly certain it was sometime six months ago. After the Seventy-First Hunger Games, definitely.

“ _Annie_ ,” Coral huffs, annoyed when she fails to respond. “You’re supposed to cut it every three months!”

“Yes,  _mother_ ,” Annie sighs, glowering a little at the reprimand. “I don’t suppose you’ll be the one to cut it?”

“Well, I  _am_  a hair dresser,” Coral rolls her eyes, “and your best friend.”

“Doesn’t mean you can give me a good haircut,” Annie mutters under her breath.

“Oh, I can give you a bad haircut,” Coral threatens, leering as Annie grins. “I’ll give you haircuts so bad that when it’s time for the reaping, that of course you’ll be considered mad, and then I’ll fix it the day after.”

“Because you’re amazing?” Annie remarks, less of a question than a fact.

“Because I am too kind and too nice and too good to let you have awful hair for the rest of your life,” Coral quips back, and that answer alone is enough for Annie to relax and let Coral cut a few inches.

 

 

In spring, Annie plants fuchsias. In spring, the daffodils sprout and Annie can’t help but beam as her work is finally coming to fruition.

“Look! Look!” Annie can’t help but excitedly point as the seeds she planted in autumn have begun to grow, and tells everyone she knows. “Isn’t it great?”

Zeke buys Annie a new spade, grinning as he presents it to her.

“Thought I’d beat Ron to the punch,” Zeke says with a pleased expression. “You still have to plant tomatoes, after all.” 

“Right, but that can wait,” Annie grins, as Sophie wryly reminds them that it’s “potatoes first, dear” with a meaningful glance directed at him.

“I’m proud of you, kid,” Ron says, crouching down to peer at the little shoots, and nods at her when he’s satisfied. The corner of his lips curve. “You did good.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Ron,” Annie says, pride swelling in her chest. “I know that it’s still got a long way to go —”

“— and one hell of a waiting game —”

“— good days, bad days, and just plain old days, but,” Annie continues, agreeing that this is only the beginning. “It’ll be worth it.”

“So,” Finnick grins, staring at her with such admiration and wonder, that Annie can’t help but lose her breath. It’s moments like this, that it’s no surprise that lets her guard down around him, and feels completely at ease. “What’s next?”

“Wait and see,” Annie laughs, nudging her shoulder with his. She hasn’t decided yet, but she has all the time in the world.

 

 

They go out for drinks to celebrate. Just Finnick and Annie, this time around. Librae would have joined them, but is currently nose deep in a book series that seems to go on  _forever_ , and Annie can’t decide whether it might be because the author refuses to shut up about whatever really gets their goat —  maybe that person really hates turnips, or can’t help describing everything as  _transcendent_ or _transcendentally beautiful_ , or wants everyone to know why this particular person sucks —  or maybe Librae just wants to read slowly and savour each word, and then rereads the book for a second time before she moves onto the next in the series.

(”What’s it about?” Annie asks, wearily. Librae’s done this before, caught so deep in a book series that she doesn’t want to do anything else. Annie doesn’t mind it, honestly, because she can always go out for drinks with Ezri or Lysander or in this case, Finnick, but at the very least Annie wants to know a vague summary of what the book is about. She doesn’t mind it, but sometimes it’s a little hard to swallow to accept that she’s been chosen over a  _book_ , of all things.

“Cowboys. And shitty, steamy sex scenes,” Librae grins, teeth pointed as she snickers.

“Okay,” Annie wrinkles her nose, already disliking the sound of it. “But why not fuck an actual person’s brain out instead?”

“Because they’re not as stupid as these characters,” Librae notes, acerbic, and there’s but complete contempt ringing loud and clear. It might be a mockery of fondness, but the way Librae’s expression hardens makes it seem like she doesn’t care about them, even if she keeps cursing, but she’s addicted and now has to follow through. “I keep hoping that they die, or suffer some accident, but the story always abruptly ends with they lived happily ever after.  _Every single time.”_

"Shame,” Annie says, not knowing what to say. She’d heard enough, and was determined to never touch the subject about cowboys with a ten feet pole.  _Never again._ )

Finnick and Annie go out for drinks, and sometimes she brings her friends, watches Coral and Gwen dance around each other, and sometimes she flirts with Ezri and Juniper.

Sometimes, she catches people stare at her, and sometimes she can tell that they’re gazing at Finnick instead. And if Annie likes the look of them, she’ll play the part of the tease, leaning in close to whisper in Finnick’s ear and let him know that someone wants their attention.

“Check out the cutie at nine o’clock,” Annie murmurs, discreetly glancing over Finnick’s shoulder, her chin tilting in their direction. “You want to go say hi?”

“Maybe later,” Finnick says, shrugging, flicking his eyes towards them briefly, “’M not feeling very chatty tonight. Besides, I thought we were celebrating your success tonight?”

“We are,” Annie agrees, simply. “But don’t let that stop you. You go over there, and you probably won’t have to  _chat_.”

She stresses the last word deliberately, and Finnick snorts into his drinks. 

Her eyes drift over to them again, just to double check. “They don’t seem to be in a particularly chatty mood either.”

“Subtle, Annie,” Finnick chuckles, a low and throaty sound. “You’ve already found someone you’re going home with, haven’t you?”

Annie grins, a winning smile that will charm anyone, she swears on her six year old self. “How’d you guess?”

 

 

“Am I being weird?” Annie asks Coral, arms across her chest as she muses on it, the sun soft on her face. “For being Finnick’s wingman when we go out for drinks?”

“I don’t… I don’t think so,” Coral says, biting the corner of her lip like she does in those moments where she has doubts and feels conflicted and she’s certain that there’s no right answer. “I mean, you two are friends, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, you’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you?” Coral says, and it sounds reasonable, that logic, Annie has to admit.

“Of course, but being  _your_ matchmaker is also an exercise in headaches,” Annie snarks, affectionate. “Seeing you and Gwen hold hands was very cute though. That other day? Progress.”

“Ah,” Coral blushes, and since her skin is pale, it’s noticeably marked. “ _Well.”_

“Oh, no way!” Annie blinks, comprehending in a flash, a slow smile spreading. “Wow. Congrats, Coral!”

“Thanks.”

“This is _amazing!_ ” Annie says, unable to stop smiling, her mouth hurts already, but the joy she feels for her friend is indescribable. Limitless.

“Yeah, it is. It’s… kind of a big deal,” Coral admits, but she’s smiling just as much, just as widely. Glowing with happiness. “And, okay, I have to admit that it’s still kind of weird, but on the whole I think that I’m okay with it.”

“Yeah?” Annie grins, and she can’t help but think at how much has changed since they were kids. Coral used to believe so ardently in the idea that soulmates was the ultimate form of happiness, and that she was destined to be with hers, and that’s how she would achieve true happiness.

There was a time that Coral used to be so excited at seeing the numbers count down.

Now Coral is excited to be dating someone who isn’t her soulmate, hearts in her eyes, and is happier than Annie has ever seen her.

“Yeah,” Coral nods, flaxen hair twisting in the breeze. “I’ve been thinking about soulmates lately. And maybe you were right, you know? A soulmate _doesn’t_ have to be romantic, after all. But, I think a soulmate is someone who is important to you.”

Is that what should be? 

What a soulmate  _is_?

It’s been like a year and half, and still Annie has no idea if that’s the answer. Everyone comes to their own conclusion, sooner or later.

“I could have told you that,” Annie states, reminding Coral with a sardonic grin. “Remember all those times I tried to tell you that having a soulmate might mean getting a best friend instead?”

“And I didn’t listen,” Coral reminisces, grinning. “I had been so sure you were wrong.”

“We knew shit,” Annie says, and she can’t believe they’ve changed so much these past few years that they’re practically unrecognizable from who they used to be. “If I knew then when I know now…”

“Funny how life works,” Coral says, nose wrinkling. “Look us now. Meeting James, seeing you and Finnick be each other’s wingman, being with Gwen… it’s kind of incredible.”

Coral sounds so confident and awed by it, that the sight of Coral finally be at peace with everything that’s happened, makes Annie feel so proud of her best friend.

“All of it helped me realize what I actually wanted, rather than what I _thought_ I wanted,” Coral sighs, and the moment turns poignant. Her voice softens, and she lowers her eyes to look at her Timer. “I can’t believe that so much of this happened all because I found my soulmate. I would have never have guessed that being so disappointed in him is what caused all this to happen. Honestly, Annie, I don’t think I could have done without you, without any of you.”

“I’m sure you would have,” Annie shakes her head, after a beat. “Eventually.”

“Perhaps,” Coral shrugs, her hand on the back on her neck, bashful. “ _Eventually._  You know, he’s… actually not that bad, James, I mean. I talked to him a few weeks back, and well, we talked. _”_

 _“Really?”_  Intrigued, Annie leans forward. “What’s he like then?”

 

 

Sometimes, it’s not love at first sight for soulmates.

Annie has grown up with thousands of stories about people who are disappointed with their soulmates. At first. Because they expected someone taller, prettier, more handsome, a different gender.

Sometimes it goes like this: it starts off rocky, a belligerent beginning because their soulmate wasn’t the person they thought it would be. They’re disappointed. They’re angry.

Sometimes it goes like this: they fall in love anyway. Maybe they get over it. Maybe they resign themselves to it.

Sometimes it goes like this: they don’t. They decide to never see each other again. They move on. Rip their Timers off. Keep their Timer just to know that they’re alive.

Sometimes it goes like this: they become not so unlikely friends, and despite the push towards romance that is the most popular perception of a soulmate, they become really good friends, and nothing more.

 

 

Annie really likes Julian Boer’s pies. There’s something about them that she can’t stay away from, and so she finds herself entering The Pier from time to time.

“Sure it isn’t something to do with Tabitha?” Gwen teases, smiling at the waitress, a knowing glance as Annie turns bright red.

“Maybe a little,” Annie says — catching Tabitha at the corner of her eye, a sardonic quip just waiting to be spoken, and her breath catches. Just a little.

 

 

They start dating two weeks later.

 

 

“Did you find yours?” Tabitha asks, her thumb ghosting over the scar on Annie’s wrist.

“Yeah,” Annie says, blunt. “Does that bother you?”

“Not really,” Tabitha replies, peering at her, impassively lifting up her wrist, the numbers set as dashes. Her fire red hair curls over her shoulder, pulled into a loose ponytail. “I never met mine, is all.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Tabitha shrugs, “I had a plan though. We were going to wait until we were like thirty to get married. And only then if we weren’t with other people. I had this notion that we’d divorce five years later because enough was enough, you know? But then,  _well_ , the countdown fizzed out, and… well, there goes that idea.”

“Interesting plan,” Annie comments, lifting her eyebrow. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard one like that before. 

“It was a work in progress, but I like to think so,” Tabitha grins, blinding Annie with her dazzling smile that she’s always liked the sight of. “Now, you going to kiss me or what?”

“Give me a second,” Annie teases, standing up on her tiptoes, meeting her halfway.

 

 

Sometimes, Annie can’t help but think of Neptune, his memory a familiar ache in her heart. She knows that he’d want her to be happy, and she is, mostly, and she’s happy dating Tabitha. But there’s still a part of her that wants him by her side still, because there was no one quite like him, with his tricks and his fake Timer, and the easy smiles that sent her pulse racing.

(”Everyone I date I has a wonderful smile,” Annie says, insistent, to Ezri. “I look at them, and they smile, and I think… something stupid, like  _wow._  And that’s how it hits me, each and every time.”)

Later, when she thinks back on Neptune, on Tabitha, on all the people that she’s ever kissed and fucked, she’s never seen them as obstructions. They helped her become the person she is, and none of them barred her from her soulmate — Annie dated them because she wanted to, not as an excuse to not date Finnick.

It’s true that Finnick has become one of the most important people in her life, someone that she feels close to and protective about, and is determined for him to be happy.

Now, though, if Neptune was still by her side, and they were still in in love, and Annie had her close friendship with Finnick — friend, mentor,  _soulmate_  — how much would have been different?

It does no good to dwell on possibilities, Annie thinks, saddened, and shakes the thought away.

It doesn’t matter. 

She can date Tabitha and have Finnick as her friend.

She can have both.

 

 

It would be nice to say that after a year, nearly two, the nightmares go away.

It would be nice to say that the further away the Seventieth Hunger Games became, the more the horror lessened.

They don’t.

It doesn’t.

Annie wakes up sometimes, and forgets that it isn’t yesterday that she stabbed Philomena in a blind fury, sometimes as she lies in the sea, basking in the sun with her eyes closed, and she flails, water splashing everywhere, too bright, too red, and the sea is filling up with the blood of the boy she killed —

_What was his name —_

— she knew it once, right?

It was…

_It was —_

Something about it made her want to be friends with him —  them —  the tributes from District —   _Seven_  —  Annie remembers, and it wasn’t because of their name, it was because one of them shared Annie’s age, and the other wanted to stay  _safe —_

Blood floods her mouth, feet touch the sand and —  

And it’s saltwater that Annie spits out, spluttering, gasping —

Willing herself to calm down, think of concentric circles. The names will come back to her, they always do. She just has to calm down first.

Yoga helps, so does gardening, and sometimes in her pyjamas, Annie will tread softly into the garden, pick up a trowel and attend to part of the vegetable garden that needs attention, digging and smoothing the earth, digging and smoothing the earth, until the guilt subsides.

Sometimes, though, that doesn’t work, and Annie just sits there, staring at the sprouting flowers, her parents sitting beside her, silent, until she’s ready to move, or they suggest going for a walk, and Annie nods. 

It helps.

 

 

“You’ve gotten better at hiding,” Sophie Cresta tells her, her mouth set into a frown, as they walk the cliffs, the wind wild and reckless and carrying saltwater dreams.

Annie huffs. “I’m not  _hiding.”_

“So,  _nothing_  is bothering you?” Sophie remarks, casting a sceptical gaze. “There’s no reason you’re being increasingly cranky these days?”

“Thought you said I was better at hiding.” Annie mutters, flushing. Some things don’t change.

Sophie tilts her head. “Only in the sense that I can’t tell  _what_  is bothering you. Usually, you’re easier to read.”

“I just,” Annie breathes through her nose, trying a few seconds without air, and inhales. “I thought I’d be better by now. With all… this.”

She waves her hands in a general sort of manner. Annie means: surviving the Hunger Games, being a victor, being the mad girl in name only. She’s lived through dreams and nightmares, stumbling through both, mistaking them from reality, only to pull herself out of it with a broken heart. She’s learnt the cruelty of the Capitol that lies beneath the decadence it so frequently presents, and still she feels that is so much that she doesn’t know. Her loved ones have died, because of her. Because of the decisions she made.

It’s a part of her now, Annie knows, and it’s never going to go away.

The hardest part is living with it.

Sometimes, it’s like the pain has dulled, and other times, it’s sharp as it’s ever been. She can ignore it, outwardly not show the hellish turmoil inside, let go when she’s by herself, but —

“You  _are_ better,” Sophie says, reaching out, and Annie instinctively leans into her mother’s comforting arms. “You have grown so strong and brave and I’m so proud of you, my dear girl.”

“I don’t feel brave,” Annie murmurs, lowering her eyes, the scent of jasmine sweet and soothing.

“Sometimes, that’s just how it goes. You don’t feel brave, but you are. You try and get through each day, and it’s more challenging than you thought it would be, because something happened and you can’t figure out why it’s worse than it was before, but it is. And you struggle to stay afloat, and it’s hard, but you make it, even if some days it feels like just barely. Tell yourself that it’s a new day tomorrow, and you’ll make it then too. That’s bravery. You might look back and wonder how you ever got this far, but darling, that’s what I’m here for. To help you remember.”

 

 

"What was it like?” Annie asks Mags, curious. Often, Annie looks to her mother as a guiding light, but sometimes, Mags is the person Annie will go to for advice. Mags, who has lived through all of it, and is a pillar of hope that Annie one day hopes that she can be. “Being the first victor?”

They don’t talk about this in the Academy. Days of the Academy were spent honing and refining their skill set. Friends were allowed, partly to understand how to collaborate with others, partly to make them competitive and gain a rivalry. 

Annie knows how Mags’ Games happened, it’s the Games that get memorized early on in the Academy, there are even quizzes about it, because Mags is the first victor of District Four, and in some ways, the most important. Mags is a hero, the one who bore this burden the longest.

It’s not that Annie doesn’t understand why victors don’t talk to victors about their Games, but sometimes, she looks at Mags, at Ron, at Muscida, and can’t help but wonder. She’s seen the footage, it was part of her curriculum, just as hers will most likely be in the future. Still, sometimes when Annie compares herself to the much older victor, she can’t stop herself from having these thoughts.

They don’t talk about it in the Academy, and why would they? There’s an understanding that the tribute who successfully turned victor come away damaged, but everyone reacts different, undergoes different traumatizing experiences, but still, the Academy does nothing to prepare its students for what comes after.

 “Difficult,” Mags chooses that word carefully, and Haymitch Abernathy from District Twelves comes to Annie’s mind. She briefly remembers that there used to be another victor from District Twelve, before —  well, that victor passed away a couple of years back.

But Annie thinks of Haymitch’s mouth permanently set in a frown, a look of contempt and a million other things he’d like to say kept within closely guarded walls. He’d folded his arms over his chest, and hadn’t said much at all. Enough to convey his bitterness and sympathy and play the drunkard that the Capitol expects.

A victor’s performance never ends, Annie knows, has known that fact for quite a while, but she still hates it with every fibre of her being. 

"But you endured,” Annie says, full of admiration, leaning forward. “Long before Ron became victor.” 

“I had to,” Mags says simply, “I promised myself when Ron won that he would never feel as alone I did. I was determined for that not to happen.”

“Is that how the monthly dinners started?” Annie asks, curious, and she tries to imagine it, a young Mags and a young Ron, spending their evening together, fellow comrades.

“No, that came about much later, around about after Librae became victor,” Mags says, her voice filled with nostalgia, and she smiles in reminisce, losing herself in nostalgia. “It was just the three of us for the longest time, Muscida, Ron and I, and then one year, there was Librae. So then, I thought for a while, and decided that if we had dinners together every so often, then that would be a good way for us to spend some time together. And then, gradually, it became routine, and the tradition of having a dinner together once a month was born.”

“I’m glad,” Annie says, smiling at Mags brightly. “I really enjoy them.”

"Happy to hear it,” Mags says, returning the gesture.

 

 

"You ever thought of getting a job?” Ron says, his voice rumbling, as they walk together in the market place, not yet purchasing food, but certainly on their way.

“I help out Dad from time to time,” Annie says, scanning the stalls to see if Thetis is there, for if she moved to a different location. “I don’t mind fishing with him.”

“He’s a good man, that Zeke,” Ron nods approvingly, pausing a little to frown. “Though I didn’t expect him to be  _that_ good at poker.”

Annie grins, the corners of her lips curving. “Yeah, Dad is amazing like that. I don’t know how he does it.”

Zeke Cresta can’t lie for shit, but somehow, he’s astoundingly good at poker.

“He teach you any of his tricks?” Ron asks, loftily, a curious glance as he considers her in light of this new information.

“He might have done,” Annie says, impishly, recognizing a challenge when she sees one. “We should play sometime.”

 

 

“Well, well, well, I wondered when you’d be back,” Jules says, sending an amused smile her way. “Missed me?”

“Missed the  _view_ ,” Annie corrects him, stifling a laugh. She turns towards the ocean, flecked with sunlight, clouds vacant from the depth of blue sky. “Nothing quite like it.”

It’s not that Annie  _hasn’t_  been over at Jules cafe for quite some time, but it’s been a while since she’s talked to  _Jules_ , trying to suppress that flash of embarrassment, that mistake of thinking that he  _might have been_  Muscida’s soulmate, evidently something he remembers every time he looks at her with an amused expression and his eyes twinkle, like he’s brimming with laughter.

And, well, maybe Annie has been mildly obsessed with The Pier’s pies.

“True,” Jules says, pushing his glasses up his nose as he inclines his head to agree. “A beautiful day is pleasant enough, but the sunsets I’ve seen from this spot right here? Well. They’re something special, alright.”

“I’ll be sure to catch it, one of these days,” Annie grins, thinking about taking Tabitha with her when that time finally comes.

 

 

“Hey, so,” Librae asks, at the next victor’s dinner. “Who’s that girl you’re always hanging out with?”

“Tabitha?” Annie blinks. She’s introduced all her other friends to the victor’s, has even met some of the other victor’s circle of friends in return. Or — they know of each other to recognize them, to nod at each other when they each other across the street, politely ask how they’re doing. “I haven’t told you about her?”

She can feel everyone’s eyes on her.

This feels a little bit like a gossiping group, and Librae has just landed something juicy.

_Fuck._

“She works at The Pier, you know that shop right?” Annie says slowly, glancing a wary gaze at all of them. They’re like her parents, trying to play it cool and innocuous, only Annie can see right through them. They all look kind of blank at the news, though.

“I know her,” Muscida says, the first to speak, and maybe Annie shouldn’t be surprised. “Julian mentions her from time to time.”

“Well, I’m dating her,” Annie informs them, and takes a sip out of her drink. Not that it’s any of their business.

“Oh, well, now I  _have_ to meet her,” Librae says, intrigue d, curly ringlets bouncing. “I can’t believe you didn’t say anything earlier!”

“You promise to be nice?” Annie dryly asks. Tabitha is nothing but pleasant while she works in The Pier, but the second you catch her in a bad mood off the clock, she had a bit temper, which, frankly, Annie found was mostly adorable since her cheeks flushed beet red and reminded Annie vividly of the tomatoes she’s grown.

“Eh,” Librae shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Do all of you want to meet her?” Annie says, her voice flatter than she imagined it would be. But it has a nice effect, she thinks, especially once she lets her gaze linger on Muscida.

She’s being mean, she knows, since she’s actually come to greatly like Muscida when he’s being relaxed and mellow from an afternoon of yoga, but she doesn’t want to jinx it. He hasn’t talked about soulmates to her, and even with the yoga classes they take, they’re not close, but Annie doesn’t think she’d be able to stand a lecture from him.

There’s nothing wrong with taking precautions since last time turned out so well.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Muscida says, his words measured and tactful. He’s very carefully refraining from drawing attention to the fact that he already knows her, Annie notices, but she  _does_  appreciate the effort he’s making, and feels a little guilty at the way she’s behaving. It is the thought that counts, Annie knows, and to his credit, Muscida is coming across as sincere. “So long as it makes you happy.”

Annie sighs. “We’ve only been dating a week. It’s not serious, now can this feel less like an interrogation?”

Why does this always happen to her?

“I asked  _one_  question,” Librae snorts. “ _You_ were the one who turned out all defensive.”

“Yeah, well, I get that from experience,” Annie mutters, sour, and intentionally not looking in anyone’s direction. “Okay, the  _next_  time I get into a relationship with someone, and I tell you guys about it, because… because of reasons — “

“Common decency and updates of what’s been happening since the last time we met as one group?” Mags says, and Annie would glare except it’s kind of true.  It’s something Librae does often, announce that she has a new boyfriend, only for the next month to report that that boyfriend was no longer in the picture.

They do spend time together in pairs, but it’s only once a month or so that they really get to hang out together.

“Possibly,” Annie concedes, “I promise not to… overreact.”

“Ditching this Tabitha so easily?” Finnick lifts his eyebrow, and Annie rolls her eyes, tempted to kick him under the table.

“No, come on, Finn. I’m just — if things do end, I’m just saying, there’s plenty more fish in the sea,” Annie says, her cheeks warm.

Besides her, Librae once more shows her disdain for all marine idioms, though Annie finds it hilarious that when Librae gets drunk, she uses them frequently herself.

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” Ron says, approvingly. 

“Says the bachelor,” Mags murmurs, earning a cheer.

“Says the widower,” Ron retorts back, and an argument evolves from there.

Annie stares at them, baffled, wondering when exactly they began to start feeling like some strange extended part of the family to her.

It just… sort of happened without her noticing it.

And, really, Annie can’t help but smile.

 

 

“This Tabitha makes you happy, then?” Finnick asks, afterwards, and they’re at the sea, on his boat.

“I wouldn’t be dating her if I wasn’t,” Annie says, exhaling. It’s not a big deal. So why does she feel nervous? “This isn’t… this isn’t going to be awkward, is it?”

“Well,” Finnick scrunches up his face, folds his arms, and Annie bites back a smile. “That depends.”

She waits. 

He doesn’t continue. In fact, he continues to pose, looking at her expectantly. 

“Fine, I’ll bite,” Annie deflates, much to Finnick’s satisfaction. She rolls her eyes before she gives in. “On what?”

“How well she handles being around so many victors. I’m serious!” Finnick says, earnest and wide eyed, and Annie blinks. “A lot of Librae’s boyfriends — and I mean — a  _lot_ were in it just… into it just because she was a victor, or because she knew other victors. Other ones, well, weren’t so good when things went south for a while. You know what I mean? But, you and Neptune… he seemed to be okay with it, when the going got rough.”

“It took time,” Annie says quietly, gazing at the sea instead, bring her back a sense of calm, realizing what he was getting at. She had to admit, that was certainly a concern of hers. “Neptune was patient, he loved me, and he wasn’t the kind of person to give up just because I came back as… not myself.”

At first, Annie hadn’t wanted to see Jones. Her head was filled with the images of slaughter, of desperation and blood staining the wall, her hands, the sink, and no matter what she tried, nothing could be washed away. Annie hadn’t wanted Jones to see her like that.

But she loved him. Missed him. Told herself that enough was enough, and regardless of her insecurities, she wanted to see him.

When she finally did, her heart skipped a beat, the world seemed like a brighter place, and there was no place she’d rather be than in his arms.

It took time, but they found their way to each other.

“He sounds like a good person,” Finnick says, gentle.

“Yeah, Jones was the best,” Annie nods, smiling softly at the memories they created together, her flesh not yet porcelain. Her eyelids flutter, rapidly blinking to stop the tears from emerging. Finnick looks like he wants to hug her. “I think if you’d met Neptune, you would have really liked him.”

“That would have been nice,” Finnick says, eyes gleaming like the sea. “Although… I’m pretty sure we weren’t on speaking terms back then.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s true. We weren’t,” Annie says, and she can’t help but laugh. “That’s so weird to even imagine these days. You’ve become one of my best friends, Finn.”

“You too,” Finnick says, sweetly, his face lighting up with affection. “I’m glad we decided that we should be friends.”

“We?” Annie looks at him, smirking. “It was totally my idea! Who tracked who down?”

“Me!” Finnick proclaims. “ _I_ had to track _you_ down, because you were too chicken to find me in the library!”

“Yeah, because I’m not an idiot!” Annie scoffs. “I know better than to go into a library!”

“Librarian Maureen?” Finnick inquires, sounding sympathetic. There’s still an undertone of teasing, Annie thinks, in his voice.

“She’s _really scary_ and still she hates me,” Annie whispers. There is a reason she does not go to the library alone. Even now.

“I know,” Finnick nods, indulgent. “But the point stands. I tracked you down, and found out that you had a nefarious —”

“ _It’s not nefarious.”_

“— fine, an _extremely nefarious_ plan to ask me how I was,” Finnick sums it up, and Annie, resigned, nods. “That’s the gist of it. Then again, I do distinctly remembering a certain someone, and I’m not naming names, saying that friendship is a two way street. So, in the end, my point stands: we both decided to be friends.”

“You’re a prig,” Annie scowls, and Finnick grins, beatific.

“Better to be a prig than to be extremely nefarious,” Finnick teases, and if Annie wasn’t so impressed by rapid fire response of that zinger, she’d have shoved him off the boat.

“Shut up,” Annie mutters, fondly. “Actually, come to think about it, Jones was curious about you.”

“Because I’m Finnick Odair?” Finnick lifts an eyebrow, intrigued.

“ _Possibly,_ ” Annie mulls, because in retrospect, she hadn’t asked if that was part of it. It could have been. “Mostly the other thing, I think. The whole soulmates thing.”

It hadn’t been an issue for them, like Annie had feared it might be. They’d theorized a little bit, laughed and lost interest because it didn’t matter. At the time, Annie barely saw Finnick, didn’t hang out with him, so there was nothing to worry about, like Coral liked to prophesize: to lose interest in Neptune and become embroiled in her soulmate’s gaze.

Now, though?

She’s happy to just be Finnick’s friend, likes Tabitha a lot — and as much as Annie will push Coral’s prophecy to the back of her mind, it’s still something that she doesn’t hold much faith in.

She couldn’t achieve this equilibrium with Jones, but she will with Tabitha.

“I’m still trying to work it out,” Annie admits. It’s not something she thinks about a lot, but every once in a while, she wonders.

Finnick leans closer, conspiratorial.

“Why we’re…”

His hands gesture at the space between them.

“Yeah,” Annie confirms. “Any luck on your end?”

“A few ideas, here and there,” Finnick muses, head tilting as he considers it. “Nothing concrete, though.”

Maybe there never will be, Annie thinks, frowning, her head slightly downcast, before she turns upwards to the sky.

Maybe that’s okay.

“Best guess?”

“You’re my best friend, and I love you,” Finnick says, and Annie meets his gaze, swallows, exhales. “A little. I think.”

“Yeah?” Annie says, her mouth curving into a smile.

“Yeah,” Finnick nods, before turning serious. “Now I have to totally make you a jumper as proof of my love.”

“Oh, now that’s too cute — wait  _a minute_ — are you mocking me, Finn?”

Crimson heat spreads on her cheeks, as Annie recognizes the situation a little too well, that tone of voice, the sly mischievous expression that he doesn’t even pretend to hide as he waits for her to get the joke. 

It clicks and her face is beet red.

“Are you  _actually_  making fun of me?”

Finnick gasps, audaciously. “Where would you  _possibly_  get that idea from?”

 _“I cannot believe you!”_ Annie shrieks, as Finnick  _wheezes_ , and she’s all the textbook definitions of embarrassed and mortified and then some. “They’re _heartfelt_ , dammit!”

That only makes Finnick laugh uproariously.

She sounds ridiculous, even to her own ears.

“Shut up,” Annie says, smiling a little, still embarrassed, by the forest fire currently burning all over her face. But she’s laughing too. “As long as you know that I love you too, then it’s fine. Right?”

“Yeah,” Finnick grins, his gaze soft as he looks at her. “It’s all good.”

“You’re really going to make me a jumper?” Annie asks, as they make plans to go fishing the next day.

“Sure. I’ve nearly finished with Cash and Gloss’, I figure now is a good a time as any to work on one for you,” Finnick beams, asking. “Got a favourite colour?”

“Hmm,” Annie says, thinking about it. “I like the colour magenta.”

“Alright then,” Finnick claps and rubs his hands like it’s a done deal.

“Yours?” Annie asks. When he blinks owlishly at her, she clarifies. “What’s your favourite colour?”

“Ah,” Finnick says, beaming as he snaps his fingers and points. Poses. “That’s easy. Burnt sienna.”

 

 

“So Julian tells me that I should expect an oncoming storm?” Tabitha pushes her fringe back with a hairband, fresh off her shift, sliding into the seat opposite. She smiles at Annie, and Annie can’t help but blush, and then she realizes to what Tabitha is referring to.

“That’s… _slightly_ more dramatic than I would have put it,” Annie wryly says, trying to hide her embarrassment as Tabitha smirks, amused, more than anything else.

Annie doesn’t know Julian that well, but, well, it’s entirely possible he shares that flair for drama like Muscida does. Or he was merely quoting Muscida. Either way, Annie most certainly wouldn’t have phrased it like that.

“Oh really now? So tell me, Annie, how would _you_ have put it?” Tabitha tilts her head, sharp eyes watching her with an almost detached curiosity.

“If it was me, I’d just say that the other victors want to meet you,” Annie states simply. Because apparently, they are a bunch of busybodies with nothing better to do. “If they haven’t already.”

“I think I’d call _that_ an oncoming storm,” Tabitha deadpans, and Annie throws her head back and laughs. “It’s sweet.”

“It’s none of their business, is what it is,” Annie sighs, running a hand through her hair. She leans back on the chair, elbow draped on the other side, unable to squash a surge of annoyance. “Okay, it’s a little sweet, but _still_.”

“They just want to look out for you,” Tabitha offers, putting it on a positive spin, and Annie _knows_ that on some base line, but that doesn’t mean that Annie will stop viewing it as a pain, or seeing the victors as nosy parkers. “I mean, I already met your other friends. I can take ‘em.”

“… they’ve never stepped into the pie shop?” Annie asks, incredulously. “They’ve never eaten  _these amazing pies?”_

“Oh, I’m sure they have,” Tabitha waves her hand, dismissive. “I’ve met Ron and Mags a couple of times. Muscida drops by every once in a while. They know me as a waitress, _not_ your girlfriend. But the other two? Don’t think so. Who know? Maybe they keep on turning up on days when I don’t have a shift.”

Annie shrugs, begrudgingly accepting Tabitha’s reasoning. “It’s possible.”

“Besides, they’re not going to meet me when I’m working here, are they?” Tabitha says, arching a brow. “Speaking of, Annie, you are _not_ allowed to take me here for dates, okay?”

“Of course I won’t,” Annie rolls her eyes. She loves The Pier because of its pies, but even she knows better. This isn’t a date, she just has a craving for some pie, and if it manages to coincide with the end of Tabitha’s shift, then it seems that luck is on her side. “As for them… they might? They know you work here, so… maybe one might sneak in incognito. But say they did, I’d still want to introduce you and say — _you call that a disguise, Librae?_ ”

“Busted,” Librae lifts off her cap, undoes her ponytail, then lifts up both her hands as if to say _guilty as charged_ and then joins Annie’s side of the table. Librae extends her hand to Tabitha. “Hey.”

“Holy mackerel,” Tabitha breathes, stunned, as she slowly reaches out to take Librae’s hand, and Annie can’t help but find her girlfriend’s flustered reaction adorable. “Hi.”

“Librae,” Annie says, a warning note in her voice.  _Be nice._

Librae bares her teeth, making no such promises. “Cresta.”

“I’m Tabitha Dawson,” Tabitha says, squaring her shoulders, after the shock has worn away, sounding more in control and less awestruck, the more seconds pass. More like herself. “Good to finally meet you.”

“Julian’s talked about me, huh,” Librae says, smirking as she folds her arms over her chest. Her eyes sweep onto Annie. “Or was it Annie?”

“Bit of both,” Tabitha says, smiling as her knee nudges Annie’s, and Annie does her best to look innocent. “Mostly Julian, though Annie paints a far more colourful picture.”

"She would,” Librae agrees, resting her head on her knuckles, catlike eyes watchful, the bracelet that Annie made for her clearly in view.  “You swear it’s nothing but the truth?”

“Only the best parts,” Annie grins with a wink, and Librae brightens up and laughs.

“I should have known,” Librae's mouth turns crooked, and she remains her regular charming self for the rest of the afternoon. “What a shame.”

 

 

Tabitha meeting Finnick goes a little like that too. He  _wants_  to like her, and so he does. He makes Tabitha laugh, says all the right things, does all the right things, is the perfect best friend, and then with a shy — strained — smile, says he has to go.

“Oh,” Annie says, understanding instantly what he means and wishing that she didn’t. Instantly, it’s like she’s been doused by cold water. All her merriness disappears, but she can’t let it show how much it affects her.

“It’s only a few days, but I wanted to give you a head’s up,” Finnick says, almost an insinuation, almost a flirty intonation, his frown upside down as he dons a sinful grin. “Bet there won’t be enough time to miss me.”

She sees the cracks more clearly than ever.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Annie rolls her eyes, arms folded across her chest.  She’s only slightly annoyed, only slightly pouting, that he is so flippant about it.

Surface level, shallow, hardly what either of them are truly feeling.

But then, he wouldn’t be the Great Finnick Odair if he wasn’t performing some kind of spectacle, some expectation of what people make of him, and Finn is a stickler for appearances.

“Later, then,” Finnick nods, and once more flashes a blinding smile before he has to dash. “It’s been a real pleasure to meet you, Tabitha.”

“Likewise,” Tabitha replies, both of them staring in silence as he leaves, and then she quietly reaches out to Annie, gazing at her in concern. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Annie lies, places her hand over her mouth, her brows knit together, as she tries to disentangle herself from unwanted thoughts, that unpleasant lurch of helplessness. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“He wasn’t so bad,” Tabitha says, changing the subject, her tone sly and sweet, in that beckoning way that makes Annie smile and want to stand on her tiptoes and close the distance between them.

“Yeah,” Annie grins, feels her heart skip a beat as she pulls back, chastely kissed. That’s something, at least. Something on the positive side. “That’s Finnick for you.”

 

 

“Alright,” Zeke Cresta beams, as he taps the circled date on the calendar. “I’ve been looking forward to this!”

Annie snorts, but she’s touched. “They’re just potatoes, dad.”

“Yes,  _but_ , that means that in a month’s time, we’re going to plant tomatoes!” Zeke says, which is the more important detail, as far as he’s concerned. “So the potatoes are a sign!”

“Of tomatoes,” Annie giggles, but agreeing with his logic nonetheless. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

“Good grief,” Sophie says, chin resting on her thumb, her hand only partly obscuring her mouth. “Why haven’t you two started digging yet?”

Zeke blinks. “There’s only one spade.”

“Not a problem, dad,” Annie says, rolling her eyes, and she catches her mother smiling. “This is my hobby, not yours.”

“I’m still here to cheer lead!” Zeke says, a meaningful look sent to Sophie, who closes her eyes in response.

“I expected nothing less, dear,” Sophie remarks, a touch of sarcasm layered deep in her fondness for him.

Annie does her best to suppress her laughter and picks up her trowel.

 

 

It’s weird to think that sometimes soulmates actually  _get_  to have a happily ever answer.

Maybe she’s just part of a bad batch or something, perhaps she’s always been that cynical, or the fact that the majority of the people Annie knows are unhappy with their soulmates; but it’s genuinely surprising to Annie when someone reacts  _positively_  to the discovery.

 

 

When it happens, Annie is chatting casually to Amalia in the market, waiting for her coffee to be done. She’s tapping her feet and digging her hands into her pockets, her focus solely aimed at the coffee that she hasn’t drank yet. Amalia is laughing at her, telling Annie that Finnick has totally turned Annie into a coffee addict.

That’s when everyone hears the Timers go off.

People forget, or maybe it’s just Annie, that it doesn’t have to be a special occasion for two soulmates to meet. Sometimes, it can be an everyday scenario.

(Just like Coral, Annie remembers later, sick to her stomach. It was at the market when Coral met James, and Coral’s heart had broken the second she saw him, and she’d walked away without a second glance.)

Annie can’t help but turn, in some sort of stupor, dread building inside her, like she’s about to vomit —   _odd_ , she thinks to herself later, since the norm is to be  _excited_ , to be happy, and Annie’s instinctive reaction —  her first thought at the sound is to think  _oh no._  She can’t help but stiffen and wait for the inevitable reaction of disappointment. 

The norm that Annie knows is to be disappointed, isn’t that —

“Oh,  _wow_ ,” says the girl, blinking, but the strange thing is that she sounds delighted, before she steps closer to her soulmate, before she flicks her soulmate’s forehead, before she gasps at the contact made. “No way, you’re _real!_ ”

“Hell yeah, I am!” The other girl says, grinning like she can’t properly express her happiness, her grin isn’t enough to convey the sheer scope of her joy, and she has plenty more to give. “And so are you!”

“We’re both real!” The first girl cheerfully declares, and they look like they’re absolutely delighted with each other. “Best friends?”

“Best friends!” The other girl agrees, and then there’s silence, a few seconds of awkwardness until one of them blurts out the question  _so what’s your name, soulmate?_

And Annie laughs, some hysterical giggle that gets stuck in her throat, not unlike a frog, and she can’t  _stop_. There are actual  _tears_  streaming down her face.

She doesn’t know why she’s laughing so much —  chalk it up to being the mad victor —  oh, but she  _does_  —  and it strikes her as so  _weird_  —

The  _norm_  is  _weird_  —

It’s so hilarious to Annie that she feels this way even now, but for very different reasons.

The norm is that people tend to fall in love with their soulmates; the norm that people are happy with their soulmate, the norm is so fucking bizarre and absurd because most people Annie knows  _aren’t_ , and that awareness of knowledge cracks Annie up even further.

That  _would_  be like her —

“Sorry,” Annie says to Amalia, eventually, after all the laughter and absurdity of the situation has worn away and coursed through her system and there’s not a drop of laughter within her, at least for now.  “Sorry, I just haven’t seen one in a while —”

_That begins happily._

They used to be more frequent in the Academy, actually. People being happier with their soulmate at first glance instead of feeling rage and disappointment. Of course, with the reaping and the Games, the possibility of being a volunteer, dying, constantly being drummed in the back of their minds, maybe there was a bit more reason to be less picky about it.

Not always, but as a general rule of thumb.

“They look like they’re going to be adorable when they’re older and fall in love,” Amalia says, wistfully staring at the spot where the two soulmates used to be.

“ _If_ ,” Annie can’t help but chime in. There’s a whole number of reasons why falling in love might never happen.

“ _When_ ,” Amalia counters back, resolute, and Annie lets it go, not in the mood for bickering, paying a pretty penny for her coffee and leaves.

 

 

It’s not as if meeting a soulmate in adulthood means that definite disappointment is inevitable. Or that meeting your soulmate when you’re a teenager means that you’ll be inevitably happy.

Annie has known adults pause awkwardly at each other, staring with wide eyes and slowly drink them in, quietly asking  _want to go out for a coffee?_ In one case, which Annie bore witness to, one of them burst out with relief  _oh thank goodness you’re hot!_

Another time, and this one makes Annie smile, finding it the sweetest of all, was Doug’s relief at finding out that he had known his soulmate since forever , crying with joy as he says,  _Jessica? All along it was you?_

Maybe, Annie thinks, a little ruefully, it wasn’t a bad batch, but rather, the people she considers her friends and family were born under a cursed sun, and that fucked up the soulmate thing.

It could be something like that.

Maybe.

 

 

“Ah,” Coral says, throwing her arm around Annie. “Look who’s back.”

“Hmm?” Annie blinks; glancing up, spoon in hand. She squints her eyes. “Oh.”

Annie doesn’t rush up to Finnick. Annie doesn’t run, doesn’t throw her arms around him and make sure that he’s real; his body warm under the palm of her hand.

Instead, she walks up to him, her hands in her pockets, peering at him curiously. She breathes out, wanting to do something — reach out, punch his shoulder, maybe. Place her hand on his cheek.

“Hey,” Annie says, softly, standing very still, “How are you?”

“Oh, you know,” Finnick says, half-shrugging, and he looks awful, like he hasn’t slept in a week, too tired to wear his facade for longer than he needs. It’s disintegrating before his very eyes, but he powers through and pretends that it’s fine. “I could use a coffee.”

“That so?” Annie tilts her head, mouth set to a frown, as she glances back to Coral. Mouths  _I have to go_  and turns back to Finnick. “In that case, I wouldn’t recommend this place.”

It’s too loud for one thing. The other is that he’s too reminiscent of that time she didn’t know what to do but take him to the cafe by the library. He’s like that now, a deer in the headlights, paying little attention because his focus keeps wandering. Annie’s not even sure he noticed her until she spoke, and by that point, she’d already made up her mind to take him to a quiet place.

Finnick extends his arm, and Annie takes it.

“By all means,” Finnick says lightly, dazed, in that odd way that Annie used to mistake him for being hungover. “Lead the way, Miss Cresta.”

 

 

“Come on,” Annie says, putting the kettle on, and rummages the shelves because she can’t remember where she last put that cloth. Her old home could use a good scrub, but it’ll do as a safe harbour for now. Guaranteed security and peacefulness. “You sure you don’t want to nap?”

“I look that much like shit, huh?” Finnick mumbles, and Annie is just — she has to refrain from making a face. Sighing.

“I didn’t say that, I said you could use a nap,” Annie speaks clearly, hands on her hips, concerned about his wellbeing. “Coffee can wait.”

“Coffee can  _never_  wait,” Finnick banters back, and this time, Annie rolls her eyes. 

“Coffee _can_ wait,” Annie insists. “ _If_ you take a power nap.”

She picks up her book that continues the adventures of Thomas Quash, and bops Finnick on the chest with it.

“I’ll even tell you a bedtime story,” Annie offers, holding the front cover up so he can see, and watches his sea green eyes turn sparkly.

“You do have a pretty voice,” Finnick says, acquiescing, smiling tiredly, instead of saying something like  _I’ve read it before_ , and well.

Well, Annie supposes, as Finnick stumbles onto the bed, and Annie pulls up a chair, beginning to read aloud, that’s good enough.

 

 

To be honest, Annie has never hated her soulmate, not even when she thought hers was always going to be theoretical and non-existent. She never hated them, only felt apathetic.

Love was a choice, she thought. Love was better _if_ it was a choice. Annie loved her parents and the dedication they had to each other, even in the moments when they didn’t like each other very much, they still chose each other and didn’t regret it for a second.

Annie wanted a love like that.

And she looks at Finnick — both friend and soulmate — snoring softly, and, well, she isn’t apathetic to  _him._

 

 

“Good nap?” Annie asks, lifting her head up when Finnick wakes up, hair sleep mussed, stumbling into the kitchen. She puts her book on the table. Power naps are supposed to be shorter than an hour, she’s pretty certain.

Still, Annie thinks, examining him, Finnick looked better. Which is the important thing.

“I’m ready for that coffee,” Finnick says, nodding all the same.

“Coming right up,” Annie says, pouring the kettle. “When did you get back?”

“Yesterday,” Finnick yawns, stretching out his arms. “Then I slept with someone later that night.”

“Huh,” Annie says, fingers wrapped around her cup as she takes a sip. “Okay.”

“I don’t think… I mean, it was fine. _I_ was fine. But,” Finnick says, unhappiness taut on his Adam's apple, and Annie is too attuned to his moods to know what he’s trying to say. “Sleeping with other people just because I  _can_ , it doesn’t… it doesn’t  _work.”_

 _Sex is fun, Finnick_ , Annie had said, back on the beach, and she’d meant it; but that hadn’t stopped her from hearing Finnick say in the silence,  _but it’s not._

It hadn’t stopped her from realizing how insensitive she sounded, seconds later.

But still, Annie wanted —

Annie wants Finnick to have fun.

“There’s got to be something wrong with me,” Finnick says, exasperated, shoulders stiffening. He wears the same sceptical expression from back then, his anguish bone deep, and Annie’s heart squeezes, determined to try and make it somehow right.

“Only that you read so many books,” Annie shakes her head, trying to cheer him up by teasing him instead. She smiles at him, half-awed, half-incredulous. “How do you do it, Finnick Odair?”

“That’s because I’m not nefarious like you, Annie Cresta,” Finnick smirks, and Annie groans because that was  _terrible_  and they both know it.

“You’ve been waiting for that one, haven’t you?” Annie wrinkles her nose, disgusted.  _“Unbelievable.”_

“Worth it,” Finnick grins, and that’s a lovely sight to see, even while Annie makes a disgruntled sound because  _he fucking would_.

He’d been refraining from saying that word for so long that she’d being to hope that he’d forgotten that it existed.

But she plays along, expressing mild irritation, since it seems to make him cheerful.

“When are you going to get it into your head that  _that isn’t what it means?”_

 _“Never,”_  Finnick breathes, a walking talking conspiracy theorist, and Annie may be feigning some irritation but that doesn’t change the fact that she still wants to scream bloody murder at him sometimes.

“ _Why?_ ” Annie snarls, burying her head in her hands, mock sobbing, and she really wants to go throw some stones, channel all her frustration into the ocean, and make it into a competition, with Finnick by her side.

Finnick just laughs and laughs and laughs.

 

 

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Annie says, later, ankle deep in sea water, looking for shells. “One night stands aren’t for everyone, Finn. It’s fine if it’s not for you.”

“Is it?” Finnick sounds uncertain, and Annie wishes that her heart didn’t break at the sound of it.

The important thing is that he tried. That’s what Annie thinks.

“Yeah,” Annie nods, because sex was for stress relief, and sex was fun, and sometimes — sometimes it wasn’t either of those things, and just a disaster. She’s had her fair share of disastrous one night stands, not just with Newt. “Think about it like this. You’re a romance heroine, waiting for the slow burn romance, since the falling for them hard and fast isn’t doing the trick. Instead, you’re getting to know them, before you can trust yourself to commit your path. Sure, it’s a slow path, but it’s a pretty satisfying one.”

“Sounds nice,” Finnick says, almost dreamily, wanting to believe in it but holding himself back.

“Well, that’s just one way it could go, you know?” Annie shrugs, cheeks flooding in a rush of warmth, suddenly flustered. She thought the metaphor would work since Finnick likes to read so many books. “You meet a person, it starts from there.”

And if it doesn’t work, well, maybe there’s another story, another bridge to cross.

Something happens.

“I  _would_ be a very pretty romance heroine,” Finnick grins, beatific, and oh so infectious.

“Oh, the  _prettiest_ ,” Annie agrees, heavy on the sarcasm.

He places a hand on his heart, long lashes fluttering. “Well, if  _you_  say so, Annie, I suppose it  _must_  be true.”

“Of course it is,” Annie deadpans, mimicking Finnick’s over exaggerated sincerity. He’s the prettiest person Annie has ever known. “I’m always right, as you well know.”

“Oh,  _always_ ,” Finnick nods, in mock seriousness that Annie cracks first and bursts into giggles.

“You owe me a Neapolitan for that pep talk, you hear me?” Annie snorts, hiding her smile behind the back of her hand. ”Jules has been talking about them for  _days._ ” 

“Sure thing,” Finnick grins, soft and sweet. “Is that the case for you and the delightful Tabitha?”

“Not really,” Annie says, lowering her head to peer over through the seawater, stepping over a crab. “Like I said. It’s not serious. We’re just having fun.”

Neither of them are looking for anything more than living in the moment, stealing a hurricane of kisses and a rush of dizzying affection. It’s a way to pass the time. There’s nothing wrong with that either.

“That sounds nice, too,” Finnick says, considering it for a moment, before asking, “So what did you think of Rosetta Von Tonder?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Annie’s eyes light up, and she grins at him. “The love of Thomas Quash’s life?”

“ _Bane_ ,” Finnick hisses, and the whiplash of emotion makes Annie laugh, surprised at the intensity, and she splashes him with water. “The word you’re looking for is  _bane_.” 

 

 

Annie doesn’t ask until she’s finished her Neapolitan, leaning back on her chair.

“What do you have against Rosetta, anyway?”

Finnick sniffs. “What book are you on?”

“Fourth,” Annie looks at Finnick questioningly, while he shrugs and she guesses that that’s the reason he’s not in the mood to elaborate. “Why?”

Which reminds her — she’s seen that odd glance before, not quite a secret, but clearly  _something._  It’s on Librae’s face too whenever she asks Annie what happened to Thomas Quash so far, a knowing look when she remembers, a knowing nod that follows afterwards, beginning the hint of a smirk. It’s an expression that Annie is slowly becoming wary of, an expression that makes her think that both Finnick and Librae are co-conspirators or something.

Although now that Annie thinks about it, it becomes blindingly obvious that they are.

“Finnick,” Annie drawls, elongating his name as slowly as possible. “How many books _are_ there in this series?”

“Ah,” Finnick smiles, tapping his fingers on the table, as the back of Annie’s neck prickles, suspicion planted that she’s not going to like the answer at all. “I was wondering when you would ask that.”

“I’m asking now, aren’t I?” Annie says, not letting Finnick succeed in side stepping her question.

“True,” Finnick nods, eyes flicking to the left like he does when he’s considering to lie and isn’t sure what shit he’s going to come up with or deal her the truth. In the end, he raises his hands. “I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve read those books. A fair few?”

 

 

In the end, it’s Mags that tells her. Mags, who is  _not_  a  _traitor of a friend_  like Finnick and Librae, who sidestep all and any questions that Annie tries to ask, a double act of mirrored answers and confused expressions, awkward pauses, and admitting that they can’t remember  _all_  the details of  _The Madcap Adventures of Thomas Quash._  And then, in the same room, Librae and Finnick distract each other by referencing other books and Annie is left not entirely certain when the conversation changes into, something about books, to be sure, but certainly not about Thomas Quash.

“Twenty books,” Annie says, hands on her hips, not outraged but unimpressed. “Seriously?”

Finnick is the first to choke.

“Yes,” Finnick says slowly, glancing at Librae, who nods in agreement. 

Librae continues. “That _does_ sound about right.”

“Oh, jeez,” Annie says, pressing her hand to her temple. “I can’t imagine the books going on for so long. The story seems at an end already, I swear.”

“Yeah, but book five,” Librae sighs, a dreamy smile on her face, as Finnick hums approvingly. “That’s when things go from good to  _great.”_

_“Yup.”_

Annie blinks. And then it clicks.

Three slow claps for Annie’s intelligence.

Annie gives them a completely unimpressed stare. “Did you guys think I’d get mad or something?”

“Maybe?” Finnick says, wearing a winning smile that current has no effect on her. “I was kind of hoping that you would get all flustered and such, because it’s really cute you know? And by that point, it would be too late, because you’ve already become invested in these characters.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Librae succinctly says, not even a little bit repentant.

“Fuck you two,” Annie says, and even though she might like the applause from, say, Ron, she’s fairly certain it shouldn’t come from the two crab cake idiots who she just cussed at.

 

 

Ron is amused, there’s no other way to put it. Although chuffed might be a better description, although it’s hard to say about  _what_.

“ _That_ is why I don’t read,” Ron says, wry, and Annie just  _looks_  at him.

“You live with Librae,” Annie points out, somewhat petulantly. Still, Annie doesn’t remember ever seeing Ron reading a book, though the amount of times she’s seen Ron sigh, pick up an open book, close it and place it neatly on the shelf so it’s out of harm’s way, is kind of endless.

“Still doesn’t mean I read,” Ron replies, shaking his head, and Annie’s shoulders slump, because she knows that too. 

She’s still not much of a reader herself, despite her friendship with two avid ones.

“But you _can_ ,” Annie says, squinting at him. “Right?”

“Sure,” Ron gives her a funny look, pausing first before answering. “So, why have you decided to start reading?”

“Well, Finnick recommended them, and well,” Annie admits, shrugging, and then ticks the things she’s learnt from the victors off her fingers. “I’ve picked up garden from you, cooking recipes with Mags, and yoga from Muscida, I thought… well, I might as well give reading a go.”

She’ll never be an avid reader, Annie knows, but she can appreciate a good book or two from time to time.

Ron grunts, studying her expression curiously. “And what of Librae? What have you picked up from her?”

Getting shit-drunk probably isn’t the best answer, but it’s the first one that comes to mind.

“Hmm,” Annie says, mulling on the possibilities. “From Librae, I'd say… how to have a good night out.”

Ron outright guffaws at that one. “That’ll do.”

 

 

Annie wonders, later, when the time came and there would be a new victor of District Four, what would that victor learn from her?

 

 

(Of course, there isn’t another victor from District Four.

Katniss Everdeen and the rebellion that lurks in the shadows even now, make sure to put an end to it.)

 

 

“Today’s the day!” Annie declares over breakfast, hands slamming on the table, as she looks meaningfully at her parents.

In all honesty, she could have done it earlier, it’s been a little over a month since she planted the tomatoes, but well, Annie got lazy, and didn’t check the calendar like she should have done. 

As Sophie is wont to say, the garden is Annie’s responsibility, it’s up to her to decide what happens or doesn’t happen to it.

“We’re planting potatoes!” Zeke cheers, thrilled that this day has finally come.  _“At last!”_

“When you get sick of potatoes, we’ll see if you feel the same way,” Sophie Cresta says, a smile touching her lips.

“What about you and the tomatoes?” Zeke Cresta fires back, not one to be deterred. “You can do a lot of variation with potatoes, my love. Not so much with them tomatoes.”

“You’d be surprised, dear,” Sophie crisply says, a steely glint in her eyes, and determination set in her shoulders. “But, I suppose it _does_ depend on the produce.”

“True,” Zeke says, inclining his head, the morning light making it seems as if silver thread runs through his hair. “Perhaps we should save our bets for next year.”

“Um,” Annie stutters, cheeks growing warm, and she can’t help but feel slightly nervous. “Let’s _not_ raise our expectations too high, alright?”

“Can do,” Zeke salutes, and love bursts from Annie’s chest, her parents pride making Annie’s spirit soar.

 

 

There really nothing better than a rainy day in District Four.

“For days in, you mean?” Tabby says, her chin resting on her hand, as her gaze slides to the windows.

“Well, that too.” Annie smiles, turning a little bit wistful. “But I’ve had some of the best kisses in the rain.”

“Yeah?” Tabby raises one eyebrow, intrigued. 

“Yeah,” Annie nods, leaning forward, teasing the distance between them. “I like the rain on my skin, how my clothes change due to the moisture, how my hair clings together. I like puddles that seem to go on forever and wading through them, the splashes you can make. I like it best when there’s that something in the air and you’re not sure whether there’s going to be a lightning strike or a thunder cloud rumbling by, but the anticipation just makes it more exciting. I just love rain, Tabby, always have.”

“And what about umbrellas?” Tabitha says, primarily to make fun of her, rather than to gently chide her.

“They look cute,” Annie says, indulgent and smiling. “But not for me, I think.”

“You’ll get a cold, at that rate,” Tabby snorts, affectionately.

“I’ve survived worse,” Annie says, and quickly transitions her sentiment to far more flirtatious. “And besides, I have you to watch out for me.”

“Is that right?” Tabitha purrs, taking Annie’s hand, and Annie smirks as they step outside. “Well, let’s test that theory.”

Hook, line, and sinker.

 

 

Here’s something Annie doesn’t ever say: she likes Tabitha’s fire red hair darkening because of the rain, she likes seeing the raindrops get caught in her tresses, and sliding down the slope of her neck, her shoulders, she likes this moment most of all because it feels intimate and precious and their secret to keep as the cloud wrings out everything it cannot muster, and still it is not enough to stop them from kissing.

 

 

“Annie!” Erin says, looking up from the picture she’s currently drawing. It’s kind of hard to say, but Annie thinks it might be a… whirlpool of darkness? “You didn’t knock!”

“Did too,” Annie says, sticking her tongue out, and racking her brain to make sure that she wasn’t lying. “Anyway, the door was unlocked.”

“So?” Scott looks at her, unimpressed. “Door’s always unlocked.”

Annie scrunches up her nose and tilts her head down to meet his eyes. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Nope,” Scott answers, blithe, while Annie sighs, and lets herself get comfortable on the sofa. “Should it?”

“Nah,” Annie shakes her head, figuring it shouldn’t if she was here, taking care of them while Mags prepares for their monthly dinner. Time flies, it seems, because Annie is always surprised when Mags reminds her of it. “I’m your baby sitter for the day. Here to protect you.”

“That’s what  _you_  think,” Mags laughs, warm and buttery and the smell of delicious food wafting into the living room.

Annie dons her best and sweetest smile. “I know you’ve got my back.”

“Never forget that,” Mags says firmly, and Annie promises that she won’t, she can’t, no part of her doubts Mags, her hand gentle and feather light on Annie’s shoulder, the floaty scent of perfume pleasant and full of reassurance.

 

 

“Ta-da!” Finnick says, presenting Annie with a magenta coloured sweater. “What do you think?”

“Wow,” Annie says, staring at it, the intricacy and prettiness and the fact that it is  _really, really_   _magenta_. “This is incredible, Finn!”

“I know,” Finnick says, pleased by her reaction. “I made it.”

“Still,” Annie says, hands outstretched, itching to try it on while the last days of spring still hold some control on the weather and she won’t overheat by wearing it. “It’s so… soft.”

“Try it on!” Finnick says, and Annie does, liking the turtle neck, how it feels snug around her throat, how she can hide her mouth with it if she wished. “Yeah, I did a pretty good job, if I do say so myself.”

He looks at her admiringly, satisfied by what he sees and Annie resolves to make him a burnt sienna inspired bracelet and hope that it makes him equally as happy.

 

 

The flowers bloom.

Her garden has finally come to life, and it must be the sheer joy that Annie feels that leaves her reeling. 

Annie cries at the sight of the fuchsias, the hibiscuses, and the petunias, so overwhelming and powerful and lovely in that moment, and in every moment that follows after.

It’s a staggering, heady sensation, and Annie has never felt more accomplished of herself than she does right now.

 

 

"I had a lot of fun these few months,” Tabitha says, taking Annie’s hand, and that, more than anything, is how Annie knows that that’s the end.

It’s okay, honestly. The relationship had run its course, passion fades, and it’s not heartbreak what Annie feels. A certain kind of sadness because it’s over, but a strange kind of relief too. It was fun while it lasted, and at the end of the day, they’re still going to be friends. Annie hopes.

Maybe Annie will miss Tabitha’s kisses, the things she can do with her tongue, but honestly, she’d miss hanging out with her more, her sly sense of humour.

“Likewise,” Annie says, and she means it. “You’re a pretty cool person, Tabby.”

“I could say the same about you,” Tabitha says, fondness shining through her voice. “Still want to hang out this Friday?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Annie says. 

 

 

“And you’re okay?” Coral says, peering at her, curiously, after Annie tells her. “Just like that?”

“Pretty much?” Annie shrugs. “You think I should be more upset?”

“I don’t know,” Coral sighs, darts in her hand, careful with them as she is with knives. “Should you?”

“No,” Annie says, because as much as being with Tabitha was nice, like a pleasant daydream, a fling, she hadn’t fallen head over heels.

“Hmm,” Coral says, mouth pursed. "Alright, don’t hate me _but_ —”

“Spit it out,” Annie sighs, because she might as well hear it.

“— does this have anything to do with Finnick?” Coral asks, hesitant, trying to gauge her reaction.

“What, like a crush?” Annie says, cheeks growing beet red before she even realizes what she said.

Coral shrugs, glancing at Annie with an intrigued expression, bordering on mischievous. “Your words, not mine.”

_Shit._

Coral probably was referring about that Finnick is her soulmate, a fact which Annie remembers far, far too late, whereas Annie was thinking of — of something else completely.

Finnick is one of her dearest friends.

Has regarding Finnick as her friend rather than her soulmate made it possible for Annie to… have a crush on him?

“ _No!_ ” Annie says, louder than she intends. Shriller. “No, come on. I care for him; he’s one of my best friends, Coral. But not like that, okay? Not even if he’s my soulmate.”

What happened between Tabitha and Annie was Annie and Tabitha’s business. Annie dated Tabitha because she liked her, thought it would be fun to spend time with her. And then it ended, in a simple conversation, the decision that they’d be better off as friends. Case closed.

Nothing to do with Finnick at all.

“Say Finnick wasn’t,” Coral says, peering at Annie with mischief, the sight enough to make Annie laugh. Release some tension from her shoulders. She ready for the hypothetical situation. “Would you want to date him?”

Annie hesitates. “It’s complicated.”

Yes. No. Maybe.

She could consider it.

“I don’t know,” Annie declares, face in her hands, not wanting to see Coral’s knowing gaze, because sometimes —  sometimes Annie looks at Finnick and thinks — and thinks —  “No.”

Her feelings run deep for Finnick, she knows, deeper than still waters. She wants him to be happy, wants him in her life, but at the end of the day, she can’t save him from the Capitol; Annie can’t stop him from going. “No, I guess not.”

She can’t help but think that the risk isn’t worth it.

It makes sense — Finnick’s reluctance and aloofness and the dissonance that he exudes, not wanting to get close to people. As long as Annie knows him, she doesn’t think he has many friends unless they’re a victor. Hell, Annie hardly sees him with people who aren’t his immediate family, preferring to stick his nose into books. He’s started trying to recite poetry at her, and Annie, in vain, always incorrectly guesses the poet. It’s kind of gotten to the point that she likes to purposely get it wrong and make names up just to make him taste his own medicine.

The point is — Finnick doesn’t  _let_  himself get close to people, wearing the perfect veneer to smile and feign interest whenever a stranger approaches him and expect him to be what his reputation has become.

He can be happy that way, Finnick says. He’ll be fine if continues to live like that, Finnick says. After all, he’s lived like that for six years, going on seven.

“Would you fuck him?” Coral says, and that makes Annie laugh, startled, and look up to the sky, catching sight of a little white boat out of the sea.  “Totally different question.”

“Mmhm, sure,” Annie agrees, leaving her answer delightfully ambiguous.

 

 

It doesn’t start like this:

_If only they weren’t soulmates —_

Annie tries to imagine that pathway, and then gives up because what does it matter? 

They _are_ soulmates, no matter what. Annie doesn’t like that fact, and trying to suss out some possible reason makes her head hurt, but it’s true nevertheless.

But honestly, if — somehow — Annie had fallen in love with Finnick, wouldn’t she just go for it, all the same?

When it comes to love, she thinks with her heart, not with her head. 

 

 

"Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be,” Muscida says, quietly, to Annie, after the victor’s monthly dinner, long after Annie announces it at the beginning, because even though the victors had been very nice and not pried too deeply beyond wanting to meet Tabitha, Annie figured that she might as well keep them updated in her current affairs and let them know about her dating life so it would prevent any awkward questions in case they arose.

At the time, everyone had accepted her statement, and moved on.

Figures that it would be Muscida who had something to say after all. Maybe he’s known for a while, or maybe he didn’t, but either way, it doesn’t matter to Annie.

Annie squints, not quite certain how to take his statement. She can’t really call it a consolation attempt.

“… is that a joke?” Annie guesses eventually, sounding uncertain. Her temper hasn’t flared yet, but she stares at him curiously, pending her reaction, just in case Muscida did mean well.

“What — oh. _Oh_ , I see,” Muscida says, somewhat befuddled, belatedly realizing what Annie was getting at, and shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I meant at all.”

“Okay,” Annie blinks, nodding, letting her guard down and relaxing, because she knows Muscida better now, knows that he can speak without thinking, and it’ll be her mistake if she has a go at him, completely misinterpreting the situation because they both have bad habits they can’t kick.

Maybe they’ll never be close, but one day, Annie hopes they won’t have to walk on eggshells around each other. 

Yoga has helped.

“I meant,” Muscida grimaces, this time choosing his words carefully, while Annie patiently waits.  “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Yeah,” Annie sighs, exhaling heavily. “Me too.”

She liked being in a relationship, and being in a relationship with Tabby, but, Annie muses, something was holding her back and preventing her from fully committing into something more than having just a good time. 

Maybe it was the timing, maybe it was her, maybe it was something else completely.

"Maybe you’re right,” Annie acquiesces, as they stay there in silence, looking up at the stars. “It just wasn’t meant to be.”

 

 

It starts like this:

It is a month before the Seventy-Second Hunger Games, Annie is wearing a red swim suit and floating in the water, her eyes closed behind her sunglasses. The warmth of the sun soaks through her face, water ripples under her hands.

She is thinking of Muscida and circles, the call of seagulls in the distance, the sand that shifts the water current.

She breathes in and out and thinks of nothing at all of the longest time, her brown hair splayed out in every direction, just trying to  _be._

"Pretty swimsuit,” Finnick says, his gaze appreciative, and Annie grins.

Droplets of the sea cling to her skin, as she stands up, the sand soft between her toes. A half smile touches her lips, and Annie lifts her sunglasses to the top of her head, answering back. 

“Perfect for a sunny day.”

His smile is fucking perfect, and then —

 _Oh fuck_ , Annie thinks, as her breath leaves her, and her stomach flips, and she is left stranded in the aftermath of an epiphany.  _Fuck._


	13. Wanweird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanweird - An unhappy fate.

Ask Finnick at twelve what the most important thing about his soulmate, and with an earnest grin, he would answer that he hoped it would be someone  _awesome._

Ask Finnick at fourteen, and he would have said that the most important part was the waiting.

Ask at sixteen, and Finnick would have chuckled and checked his wrist, a silent and desperate plea of hope for the countdown to appear, playing it coy.

Ask at eighteen, and Finnick would think first of Librae and her disappointment, then he’d deliver a strained smile, recovering in the blink of an eye and murmur something flirtatious as an easy ploy to distract them from his answer.

At twenty, Finnick thinks of Annie, and doesn’t know what there is to say.

At twenty-two, Finnick states simply, with an sincere and soft expression, that it’s having that person in his life make such an impact in ways he could have never guessed.

If he sounds too sentimental — _well_ , he’s read hundreds and thousands of love stories with a happy ending for most part. Finnick can only hope that he could be so lucky.

 

 

Annie’s expression falters, and she looks away, twisting into a scowl. “ _Fuck.”_

“Everything alright?” Finnick asks, not sure what just happened. The water is warm and pleasant, the sun is soft and bright, and Annie lowers her sunglasses, her mouth set in a frown.

Annie says nothing at first, and Finnick waits it out, letting the ocean waves roll over them. He thinks about blood in the water, knives in the sand, the red on her swimsuit, and breathes out.

“Ever feel like your life is just one big cosmic joke?” Annie says eventually, looking back him, guarded and wary in a way that surprises him.

The sunlight shields his eyes.

She seems startled, more than anything, Finnick thinks, wondering what he can say to help. He recognises it — the practised stillness, the forced calm, the panic lurking in the depths of their minds at all times. He can help, perhaps, by telling a joke, maybe, something witty to relieve the tension.

“Between me being a harlot, and you being an odd bird,” Finnick says, almost coy, with a sly glance quick enough to notice a brief smile, the tucking of a lock of hair behind her ear, telling enough. “Yeah, I think I know the feeling.”

“We are basically one big cosmic joke, aren’t we?” Annie says, a wry smile as pretty as her red swimsuit. It’s an odd smile, truth be told, twitching at the corner of her lips, never quite revealing her teeth, but there’s something passing dark about it.

“I mean, pretty much,” Finnick agrees, softly, and it’s like still waters again, Annie relaxing, her shoulders noticeably less pointed, and he sits on the ocean floor besides her. Wonders vaguely if a crab might try and pinch him. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Annie echoes, sliding the sunglasses back onto her face and lies back, letting the ocean carry her.

 

 

“You’ve got a pearl in your mouth,” Aunt Maria hums, in that knowing way that aunts have and irritate their nephews in the process. There’s a teasing lilt in her voice, which Finnick recognises is her way of being ridiculously amused by him but is trying hard not to laugh.

Finnick runs his tongue over his teeth, double checks behind his lips, and sticks his tongue out when he finds nothing. “Not today.”

If he did, well, the Capitol would be sure to take from him too.

“I wouldn’t be so sure, kiddo,” Maria says, ruffling his hair. She tilts her head to the side, thoughtful as she considers him, and nods to herself, evidently satisfied by what she sees. “It’s a good look for you.”

“I’ll be sure to let the next photographer know,” Finnick grumbles, not even attempting to be blithe when he hasn’t had his coffee, much to his aunt’s consternation.

Aunt Maria clucks her tongue.

“You stole that from a book,” Harry chides, raising his eyebrow. “Right, Marie?”

“Not stole. _Borrowed,_ ” Maria corrects him, airily, crisp and clear because no one in the Odair family likes the word _quoted._ “Or if you prefer, issued a challenge.”

“I’ve missed those,” Finnick says to himself, tone rueful.

Harry fiddles with his spectacles and tilts his head, bemused. “What challenge?”

“You’ve never played it?” Finnick asks, incredulous.

Maria ignores him as she explains. “Find the book that uses _that_ particular turn of phrase and you get to pick dessert for the next two weeks.”

Finnick can’t help but grin. He’s always liked this reward best.

Still, he’ll play along and act as if this is the first time this has ever happened, and make Harry feel even more like a fool.

With a heavy sigh, Finnick expels all the air from his lungs and leans forward, intrigued. “And what if I find another book that uses that expression?”

Absently, he starts racking his brains to see if he can remember if has already.

“Then you have my eternal respect and amazement,” Maria snorts, light on the sarcasm. “Good luck with that.”

“Are you going to tell us what _you’ve got a pearl in your mouth_ means?” Harry asks, gazing at Maria with a raised brow.

“Nope,” Maria beams, cheerful. “You’re a reasonably smart man. It’ll come to you at some point, surely.”

“Reasonably,” Harry grunts, though his disposition becomes grumpier and Maria merely laughs.

 

 

It doesn’t take long for Finnick to figure out what his aunt means.

That she knows. Has done for a while, most likely, trying to find a particular phrase to let him know in her way, making it as innocuous as possible. Now if only he could recall the books she’s been reading over the past few weeks…

It makes him breathe a little easier, somehow. Stranger still, Finnick doesn’t feel scared but… hopeful.

He’d thought that he’d be terrified if someone found out, to use it against him, and his first response would be to deny it, to bury that facet deep within so nobody could ever accuse him of something as trite as _love_.

Before, Finnick would have compartmentalized. Deny it, pretend that that part of him didn’t — _doesn’t_ — exist. It doesn’t work like that, Finnick knows, his heart a treasure chest, hidden beneath a mountain of sand. He has to be smarter, clever, ten steps ahead.

He can deflect and tease and charm, never quote able to answer the question long since forgotten, obscuring the truth that must never be discovered. He’s no stranger to it, sharpened his teeth and poisoned his smile, practised it until it’s an art form as natural as breathing.

But it’s different when he’s not in the Capitol, when he’s in District Four.

Aunt Maria knows, and he trusts her to keep his secret, trusts that it’s his secret to keep, and he is safe in her hands.

Maybe he’s grown up a little, without realized it. Changed because Annie Cresta became part of his world. Knocked him off his orbit. She is unlike anything he could have imagined.

Easily, effortlessly, ebulliently, Finnick fell in love.

How could he not?

 

 

“I _hate_ this month,” Librae mutters, her forehead pushing into her thin wrists, her curls acting as a curtain and veiling her frown. Though Librae could turn away, and Finnick would still be able to see her frown, clear as a black rain cloud on an open blue sky. Librae sighs, shoulders heaving, and she reiterates, flatly. “I fucking _hate_ this part.”

“It’s going to be weird,” Annie agrees, nodding, and Librae lifts up her head and scowls at her, once the realization strikes.

“What? _Oh_ , yeah, I guess,” Librae’s voice lowers, and an expression fluttering dangerously close to concern flickers over her face. “And then there’s _you_ , Cresta. And then there’s you. So. You got a plan?”

“Mm, I figure the stand still, look pretty mad is some sound advice that I can take,” Annie shrugs, tipping her head back to get the last drops of her drink. “Finally.”

_“Finally_ ,” Librae echoes, rolling her eyes, before glancing at her suspiciously. “And after?”

“Huh,” Annie says, blinking as she stalls, mulling over her answer. “Do the same as last year, I guess. Spend it with everyone else. Eat some pie. Draw pictures with Scott and Erin.”

“Sounds peachy,” Finnick says, and just like Librae, is unable to hide the bitterness from his voice. He can’t help but feel jealous, angry even. No other victor can do that — avoid contact from the Capitol, avoid becoming a sponsor, refrain from giving tips on how to impress and kill —

(But then, he’d never had met Cash and Gloss, Jasmine and Quint, if he’d made a deal like that.

Not that he would have ever gotten that kind of deal.)

No one wins the Hunger Games, everyone loses, even the winners. The fact is, everyone loses in different ways, and some lose more than others.

 

 

(“Finn,” Annie says afterwards, and Finnick can’t get rid of his bad mood, and Librae is content to leave them both behind.

It’s like a storm, itching under his skin, in his veins, like love, like death, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, hoping that the graze might temporarily distract him.

It doesn’t. Just makes him feel stupid.

“Yeah?” Finnick says, wincing, the word all but torn from his throat.

Annie stares at him, silent for a good while that makes Finnick shift balance on his feet to feign indifference. He doesn’t know what to make of her while she studies his expression, a crease forming in her brow.

His heart skips a beat.

“What is it?” Annie says, folding her arms across her chest.

“Just a stupid expression, I can’t get it out of my head,” Finnick says instead. It’s true; it’s been bugging him that he can’t find it.  But it’s not what really bothers him, and he has a feeling that Annie knows it.

“Oh yeah?” Annie asks, playing along. “Can I ask what the expression is?”

“Nah,” Finnick teases, sticks his tongue out, arms behind his head. “The expression’s not the important part. The important part is where it’s located.”

“What?” Annie looks confused. “I don’t get it.”

Finnick exhales. “It’s in a book. But which book, is the mystery and the challenge, and Aunt Maria isn’t telling.”

“Oh,” Annie says, somewhat surprised. “I could ask Maria for you?”

“Only if you’re truly nefarious,” Finnick grins, delightedly watching Annie roll her eyes. “Which I know, you truly are.”

“Fine then,” Annie huffs, folding her arms across her chest, “I won’t.”

Finnick can’t help but smile at her then. It wouldn’t work, Finnick knows, no matter how subtle Annie may or may not be. But he appreciates the thought.

“Hey, Finn,” Annie starts, and then stops.

“Yeah?”

Annie takes a breath, tilts her chin up at him, and says: “Nothing. Never mind.”)

 

 

Everyone is off kilter in the month that builds up to the Hunger Games. No amount of preparation is enough, it’s tiring just to think about it, a slow bone deep resignation. If anyone is acting more erratic and sleep deprived than usual, it’s easy to not hold it against them.

It happens every year, the emergence of old nightmares that you wish you could forget and never quite.

His tells are in his twitchiness, but Finnick can smooth his hair back and give a convincing smile, a soft apology, blaming it on a new brand of coffee that has an extra kick.

 

 

He tries, in some arbitrary and absent fashion, to take his mind of the inevitably by delving deep into his aunt’s challenge. He skims books day in, day out, for that particular poetic phrase, but it’s half-hearted at best.

It sort of disintegrates when Finnick involves Librae, who is far more interested in quarrelling than pursuing a pretty string of words.

“Pearl in your mouth,” Librae shuts the book in her hand, a sharp snap, and wrinkles her nose. “Sounds pretty stupid to me.”

“Yeah, well, luckily this isn’t about _your_ opinion,” Finnick huffs, his finger tracing the words on the page as he tracks them with his gaze, a useless attempt to be more diligent and successful with his reading.

“Maybe it should be,” Librae snipes back, and Finnick looks up, instantly forgetting what line he was one, needled enough to start bickering back, wasting time, content to take his mind off things.

It gets worse the closer they get to the reaping. They all feel the Capitol’s power deepen their hold on them, an ugly sensation of being reclaimed, lodged in the backs of their thoughts, masqueraded by the cries of adoration from the Capitol that is never to be silenced.

 

 

Finnick wakes up much too early on the day of the reaping, unable to help it; the habit too deeply ingrained in his system.

He can’t escape the panic that bubbles within him, the clawing desperation to get out of an empty house while everyone sleeps, that strange morbid romanticism to lose and find himself at sea.

Sometimes, those feelings are more intense than he can bear, but often what happens is that by the time Finnick reaches the beach, part of him has calmed down. Not nearly enough, but the sea time and time again unconditionally offers its own form of lonely comfort, and soothes him in ebbs and flows.

Thinking about Annie, her unflinching strength, that helps him too.

 

 

“Come on, Finn,” Ron says, hands in his pockets, his mouth sloped downwards into an all too familiar frown. Waits for Finnick to pull himself together and row. “Time to go.”

“Yeah,” Finnick says eventually, pushing out all the air from his lungs, a means to ready himself for the cycle to begin again. He rubs the sand from his eyes. “I know.”

“How are you feeling?” Ron asks, as they make their way to the stage, handing Finnick some snacks.

Finnick straightens his shoulders, stands tall and proud, pushing away his battered self, the anchored weight of hurt that he can never free himself from, but can shake free for a little white. He’ll make himself look glamourous instead of sleep deprived, because he must, if he is to survive.

His sandals scuff the ground.

“Oh, you know,” Finnick says, faking a grin. Back to business as usual.

 

 

Annie stays by Mags’ and Librae’s side, meek and quiet, her gaze downcast like her shoes are infinitely more interesting than the denizens of District Four. It’s better to stare unseeingly at them, in Finnick opinion, but it fits the role Annie has to play.

There’s one other thing he can’t help but notice — Annie’s hair.

It’s like she impulsively took some scissors and started cutting it with no idea with what to do, and then gave up. Only half of her hair is cute.

Finnick can’t help but glance at her, troubled, but Librae is stony faced and Mags is sedate. Muscida folds his arms and Ron scowls, and Finnick figures he can ask about it later since nobody is paying it much mind.

This year’s tributes are two seventeen year olds — a girl called Libby Tanner and a boy called Caleb Marillier, both of them seemingly capable of having a fighting chance if the odds are in their favour —

Annie is silent throughout.

No outbursts about Davy Jones like last year.

Finnick doesn’t realize that he’s holding his breath until they’re being ushered into the Justice Building.

 

 

“I’m never going to get used to this,” Annie says, sighing.

“You did well,” Mags says, supportively, her hand on Annie’s arm. Quieter, she adds, “You will.”

“Think it worked?” Annie asks, nervously gesturing to her badly styled hair, self-conscious. Then she tries to tuck her hair behind her ear, an ineffectual attempt since the length is wrong. It’s a trait that happens when she’s uncertain about something, and only then does Finnick remember that Annie mentioned that she was thinking about altering her hairstyle for the reaping.

A visual attempt at trying to be seen as the mad victor without having to resort to be seen as a caricature, like Haymitch was wont to do every now and then.

“Maybe,” Librae says, shrugging, hands on her hips. “I’ll ask the other victors, see what they thought.”

“Discreetly,” Ron says, his glare pronounced.

“Course,” Librae rolls her eyes, derisive. “I’m not an idiot.”

 

 

No one has the heart to tell Caleb and Libby why Annie won’t be joining them, preferring to let them come to their own conclusions as she bids them farewell and good luck at the train station.

If they had asked, _well_. It’s simple enough to remind them that Annie Cresta is the mad victor, and then say no more.

Finnick transforms into his usual famed self — likable, amiable, easy to get along with. It’s a persona he wears like the clothes on his back, and he slips into it effortlessly. The final touch is always his famously crooked smile.

He doesn’t have to be their idol, and neither of them look at him with starry eyes of admiration, but he does want to be on good terms with his tributes, at least.

 

 

Neither tribute has met their soulmate — as Muscida is bound to find out, and the script goes as follows: Ron grimaces, Librae scorns, Mags patiently waits it out, and Finnick expresses mild interest.

He understands why Muscida does this — it feels like a beacon of light in some respects, some glimpse of hope that the tributes can hold to _if_ they survive, _if_ they live long enough —

Still, even after it’s happened to Finnick — who has survived, who has lived long enough, who has found his soulmate — listening to Muscida ask the same question again and again to new faces, year after year, Finnick wonders if Muscida knows that he’s been cruel, unintentionally or otherwise.

In his own words, Muscida wants to raise their hopes, but all Finnick sees is that hope being cut short and all the more tragic because it was given a voice.

Somehow, he can’t help but feel it’s worse than when Flickerman asks. Flickerman gets a three minute interview; whereas Muscida gets a week.

 

 

“Long time no see,” Gloss says, and Finnick grins, despite himself, his first real one in a while. It’s an old joke, but Gloss likes it.

“You’re a real gem,” Finnick teases back, and it makes Gloss laugh. Finnick feels better already.

He’s missed his friend, and being around Gloss certainly makes his time in the Capitol more bearable.

“Any progress?” Finnick asks Cashmere, as she approaches them, his question quiet as a ripple of water, and he buries his head in her soft hair, her arms encircling him.

Cashmere hesitates, a telling _no._

“I can’t just go up to her!” Cashmere says, getting more flustered as she mutters her excuses.

“Sis,” Gloss sighs, and Cashmere whirls to face her brother, giving him a pointed look.

“What if I brought a conversation starter?” Finnick says, holding up the jumpers that he made for them — the pink and black for Gloss, the green for Cashmere.

“Thought you were going to make us scarves,” Cashmere notes, absentmindedly, smiling nevertheless as she pulls the green jumper over her.

“Where’s the challenge in that?” Finnick replies easily, rewriting his past and deciding that what happened wasn’t that he forgot it was supposed to be scarves, and he changed it to jumpers because he loved seeing their surprise. “Anyway, I think you should show it off to Enobaria and ask her if she thinks you look pretty.”

Her cheeks pinken. Cashmere swallows, and then:

“I’m not going to say _that!”_

“Then say something else,” Gloss rolls his eyes, giving his sister a nudge in Enobaria’s direction. “ _One_ conversation, Cash. That’s all we ask.”

“Don’t pine forever,” Finnick says, sage advice that he’s not entirely certain he can take himself.

“I can try,” Cashmere mutters under her breath, before her glance softens and saddens, anxiousness shadowing her pristine features. “Finn, you understand, don’t you? Why I can’t… why _we_ can never…”

“I do, but…” Finnick falters, trailing off. Of course he understands her reluctance; the fear of being found out, denied, punished; yearning for that person all the same. She’s in the same boat as he is. But still, he perseveres, determined to be encouraging. “I think you should go up to her and just talk to her. No harm in that, right?”

“Yeah,” Cashmere nods, sounding less than convinced, but at least willing to give it a go. “Alright. Wish me luck?”

“Breath, Cash,” Gloss reminds her, as Cashmere embarks on her biggest challenge yet. Then when his sister is out of earshot, Gloss turns to look at Finnick carefully, regarding him with quizzical eyes.

Finnick stiffens, instinctively on the defensive. “What?”

“You’ve changed,” Gloss comments, quietly. He sounds surprised.

“Have I?” Finnick muses, scratching the back of his neck, trying not to feel self-conscious, trying to relax his shoulders. He blinks, trying to trace back to the moment when everything changed. But it’s difficult to pinpoint it, too many moments, too many blurs, like closing his eyes and feeling rain fall on his face. Perhaps it’s the other way around, and it happened too slowly for him to realize. “Can’t say I’ve noticed.”

 

 

It’s been two years since they’ve seen each other, Finnick rationalizes. It’s only natural that he’s changed.

Still, there’s something about Gloss’ observation that makes him feel netted, and that more than anything occupies a majority of his thoughts in the days that come.

 

 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Mags asks, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

“It’s… well,” Finnick sighs, rolling his neck as he lies back on the sofa. Then he notices Muscida joining them. “Muscida! Do you reckon that siblings could ever be soulmates?”

“I’d say it’s very unlikely,” Muscida states slowly, before peering at Finnick curiously. “Why? Do you know of any?”

“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t,” Finnick says, coyly, and Mags laughs. “Humour me, Muscida. What would you think if that ever happened?”

Muscida sighs heavily, crossing his arms as he sits down opposite. “Hard to say. I’d guess that the first question that would come to mind is: are they twins?”

“Twins?” Finnick echoes, gaping, mind blown. Of course. That’s never even occurred to him that that might be a possibility. Gloss and Cashmere won their Games consecutively, but he’d always assumed there was a few years difference between them. They look so different, act so different, that he’d never even thought to consider it.  “Why would soulmates being twins make the difference?”

“Twins are strange creatures,” Muscida gives him a light smile, teasing him a little bit. “In the Dark Days, sometimes they were seen as a sign of good luck, other times misfortune. A popular folklore was to say they’re two halves of the same whole, and they share a deeper bond than other siblings do. At least, that’s what I remember. Right, Mags?”

“Something like that,” Mags affirms.

“If they’re twins, then it makes sense that they’re soulmates,” Muscida concludes, brows furrowed, before nodding, satisfied with his answer.

“And what if they’re not twins?” Finnick ventures, wondering about that possibility. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. He simply doesn’t know.

“Then I’d say that it’s impossible. I can understand twins being exceptions in the soulmate system, but otherwise, it’s just impossible,” Muscida shakes his head. “ _Inconceivable_.”

“Nothing’s going to change his mind, Finn, so just let it be,” Mags whispers, and Finnick nods in response. Mags and Muscida have known each other for far longer, it makes sense that they might have had this conversation before.

“Yeah,” Finnick agrees, his voice soft. “Alright.”

 

 

“Tell me what’s up,” Librae says, propping her chin on her hand, eyes sharp as she uses her other hand to toss him a beer can. “You’ve been distracted all week. Not a good mentor _at all._ ”

“Fuck,” Finnick exhales heavily, exhaustion running through his veins. He’d thought he’d done a good job, say all the right things, be much more involved with the tributes, reasonably shot down Victoria’s idea that Libby and Caleb should say that they were soulmates — or at least state that they _want_ to be each other’s soulmate. He thought he’d discarded all the parts of him that didn’t matter in the Capitol, making pleasantries with everyone and keeping up the morale with some sound advice. “That obvious, huh.”

“To me, at least,” Librae states, her voice clipped. And if Librae suspects, that must mean to some extent that the others do too, particularly Mags. “You do a pretty good job of hiding it though. I’m pretty sure the tributes are none the wiser. Anyway. Want to talk to about it while we get drunk?”

Finnick is silent, weighing his options. He _could_ talk to Librae about it, because in a way, that’s part of the problem, or… he could let it fester. Bottle it up until he explodes.

Some choice he’s got there.

“Remember…” Finnick starts, stops, sighs. He’s certain that it’s going to sound stupid, but he breathes, forcing himself to calm down and not overthink. Best just to get on with it in hushed whispers. “Remember when you said that my soulmate would never love me the way I wanted her to?”

“Oh, _hell_ , Finn,” Librae mutters under her breath, twisting her expression into scorn. She waits a few seconds, scowling at him, with disappointed eyes, as she tries to keep her voice quiet. “ _That’s_ what’s been eating you up? What the fuck did — do I know? I didn’t know Annie at the time. I didn’t even know my own soulmate. Fucking forget about what I said!”

“You think I haven’t tried?” Finnick tilts his head to gaze at her. It haunts him, Librae’s bitter words, thrown so thoughtlessly, weighing him down when he thought he couldn’t get any worse. Her voice mocks him at the back of his head, clouding his thoughts whenever he sees Annie and wants to kiss her. “I can’t do it!”

“Fuck,” Librae sighs, sympathetic. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I thought you weren’t the type to listen to all the stupid shit I say.”

“Usually not, no,” Finnick tries to smile, but his heart is beating too fast, and he thinks he might be teetering on the edge of hysteria. Some distant precipice. He doesn’t know why he’s trying to smile. He doesn’t feel like smiling at all. He knows that Librae can see right through him. “Guess there was something about it that had me rattled.”

He could have said: _I was young, gullible and stupid._

He could have said: _I didn’t know you that well back then._

He could have said: _what if you were right?_

Maybe Librae hears his unspoken fears, all his doubts that he leaves unsaid, because he gaze softens and she reaches out, her hand on his arm.

“’m sorry, Finn,” Librae says, her voice muffled but sincere. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s alright,” Finnick says, feeling lighter now that he’s let it out. He still feels worn down and drained by the dualism of being in a place that makes him miserable, a place that will never let them forget what happened here, forced to make himself act unaffected and joyous. “Right now, I just… I need to know that Annie’s okay.”

“She’s strong,” Librae states, steely, but Finnick shakes his head.

It’s not that.

“I know she is,” Finnick mumbles. Annie’s survived two Games, she can survive another. She’s surrounded by friends and family in District Four. It’s not the watching the Games that worries him.

What worries him is that Annie might not be alive by the time they get back.

“We’ve done nothing wrong,” Librae whispers, fierce, insistent. “Nothing to make them doubt. So long as we act as they expect, they have _no_ further reason to hurt her.”

“Shit,” Finnick curses, tipping his head back, falling onto the silk pillows. So many games within games, so much at stake depending on how they play their hand. Maybe they’re being paranoid. Maybe they’re not being paranoid enough. “It never ends.”

“Nope,” Librae agrees, draining the bottle dry, then joins him: head meets pillow, and turns her body away. She has the left side, he has the right. Then, Librae spits out, venomous:

“Because where’s the fucking fun in that?”

 

 

He spends the Seventy-Second Hunger Games on his best behaviour, getting the sponsors to invest, to want Libby and Caleb to win. He charms and flirts and laughs.

It’s an easy script, truth be told, years of practice in the making. The outcome is always the same: Finnick hates himself for it, his skin crawls, and even the bubbles of the Jacuzzi can’t wash _that_ feeling away.

It all goes to waste: Caleb dies first, slashed across the face and left for dead for the mutts to ravage apart, Librae reaches the final eight and gets killed fourth. She never sees the lance coming.

Johanna Mason, the newest victor, looks at him with thinly veiled dislike.

_Prig_ , Annie’s voice murmurs, as if she’s here with him, her mouth grazing his ear, and she’s leaning a little too closely like when they go out drinking together. Finnick can’t help it: he giggles. _See? She totally thinks you’re a prig._

It cheers him up, an invitation to start a conversation with her, and Finnick spends an afternoon with Johanna, competing over who has the darker sense of humour.

He can’t help but crack a quip about battle axes.

 

 

“Cash is pretty moon eyed over Enobaria,” Gloss says, and he sounds proud as Cash laughs at something Enobaria has said.

There’s only three people left in the Arena, and Finnick is hedging his bet that it won’t be the remaining Career from District Two. Who knows? Maybe the feisty tribute from District Five will win this time around.

“Yeah, I’ve never seen her that happy,” Finnick sighs, feeling a little bit envious. “Have you found anyone to be moon eyed over?”

It’s a cute expression. Must be a District One colloquialism.

“Keeping my options open, though I’m sure if a certain someone wants to share his Jacuzzi, I wouldn’t say no,” Gloss chuckles, throwing in a flirty wink for extra effect.

Finnick places his hand on his heart. He is struck by Cupid’s arrow himself. “I always hoped this day would come.”

“How about yourself?” Gloss asks, smirking, looking devilishly handsome as he does so.

“Hm?”

“Anyone you’re moon eyed over?” Gloss clarifies.

“Ah,” Finnick shakes his head, unleashing a dramatically tragic sigh. “My heart, as always, belongs to the sea. A cruel mistress, to be sure, but she’s patient and kind when I need her most.”

He’s always been conscious of how he presents himself in the eyes of the Capitol, and it’s achievable for a few more days, but it’s _exhausting_ the more he has to keep it up, close to pushing the act to a month, but he can’t take any chances.

Honestly, he can’t relax until he’s in District Four.

Finnick looks at his wrist. Where the Timer should be. Where Annie’s seashell bracelet is.

“The sea makes you that happy, huh,” Gloss says, carefully, and Finnick looks up, watches Gloss gaze briefly at his bracelet, then at Finnick himself.

Finnick is terrified that his expression on his face will give himself away.

“You could say that,” Finnick swallows, his throat thick, his chest constricted. He isn’t used to — he’s never been in love before. He’s never worried like this, never been quite so aware of the danger.

(What if the Capitol already know?

Is it over before it’s begun?)

“Uh huh,” Gloss clears his throat, clearly unconvinced, but decides to leave the subject there. “And how is the victor that isn’t here?”

“About as mad as you expect,” Finnick says, blandly, lifting his shoulder and drops it. He’s unable to stop himself from thinking that Annie, had she come to the Capitol, would have probably gotten on swimmingly with Gloss and Cashmere, and not just because of her preferred weapon of choice.

They shared the same type of humour, namely, to be able to ridicule him with ease and have the uncanny ability to make him laugh genuinely.

“I see,” Gloss comments, inclining his head, before he looks away and an announcement draws his attention away.

Looks like it’s down to two tributes.

“Oh, hey,” Finnick says, suddenly, since they’re talking about soulmates, _technically_ , and the subject brings Muscida to mind. He’d been meaning to ask for a while, and just never got round to it. “Are you and Cash twins?”

“Maybe we are and maybe we’re not,” Gloss teases, enigmatic and smirking. “Why?”

“I made a bet with Muscida,” Finnick admits, cheeks growing warm. “If I’m right, and he’s wrong, I get free pies for a month.”

“And if you’re wrong, and he’s right?” Gloss smirks, amused.

Finnick shrugs, modest. “I work at his husband’s pie shop for a month, for free.”

Gloss laughs. “So which did you bet on?”

 

 

“You’ve been awful quiet,” Mags says, and Finnick stifles a yawn, as the last interview by Caesar Flickerman happens, and they can’t help but talk to each other from the corner of their mouths.

Turns out that their latest victor is from District Eight, winning by a surprising but effective trap.

“Sour grapes,” Finnick shoves his hands into his pockets, resisting the urge to look down and scowl. He’s doesn’t mind losing a bet against Muscida or working for free with Julian, but he can’t help but sulk. For show. “That, and I don’t have much to say.”

“We’ll be home soon,” Ron claps him on the back, gives him a good shake, and that helps Finnick remain awake for the duration of clips, rewatching Caleb’s brutal death, Libby’s bad luck.

_Not soon enough,_ Finnick jadedly thinks.

 

 

He sleeps for days on end when he gets back from the Capitol.

He counts himself lucky that he dreams of nothing at all.

 

 

(It would be nice to say that the Capitol cannot touch him in at home. That the victors are safe each morning they wake in District Four and taste the ocean on their lips.

But they all know that’s not quite true.)

 

 

Things settle.

That’s the best way to put it, really.

After the Games, things settle. Everyone has their own pace, their own way to adjust to returning to life afterwards. Librae reads a shitload of books, Muscida practices yoga more frequently, Mags offers to bake pies for Julian, Ron goes to the gym, and Finnick… Finnick ties and reties the rope by his bedside into knots.

He’s not sure what Annie does, guessing that it’s either gardening or creating more bracelets.

Even if she didn’t go to the Capitol, or become a mentor, or just — barely begins to know the tributes, deciding to start up a supportive friendship —  the cruelty and inescapability is still felt. Just like when a tour happens, and the districts are forced to put on a show: no one is fune, but they’ll wear a fixed smile on their face no matter what.

 

 

When Finnick finally tells himself to pull it together, enough is enough, he does to the library, and finds Annie in at its café, happily chatting to Jake.

Her face brightens the moment she sees him, and _fuck_ , it’s like breaking through to the seawater’s surface. Finnick didn’t realize how much he’s missed her until the feeling consumes him. She’s such a welcome sight for his eyes.

“Hey,” Annie says, warm and soft and comforting, and he doesn’t think he could love anyone more than he loves her. “It’s okay, Finnick.”

Annie offers him a napkin, raises it to his face, and Finnick takes it, rubs it over the tears he didn’t know were there.

“Thanks,” Finnick mumbles, sniffling, mopping up his face. His heart is beating too fast with — with relief, and it’s overwhelming. “Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

He can relax, a little, knowing that Annie is alive and safe.

“Don’t be,” Annie shakes her head. “Even if it’s not ours… somehow, we still get messed up by the Games.”

“Yeah,” Finnick nods, moving to a table and pulling up a chair. “Something like that. Who told you that?”

“Ron talked to me,” Annie smiles, the prettiest one he’s seen yet, so sweet and lovely. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” Finnick smiles back, breathing out. He peers at her. “You doing okay?”

“I think so,” Annie nods, biting her lip. “I played my part. Did what I thought was necessary.”

“And now?” Finnick slumps forward without any finesse, propping his hand up so his cheek smushes into it.

“Now, I’m trying to convince myself that the worst is over,” Annie exhales, speaking slowly, head downcast. “Wait for the tour. The next Hunger Games. Tell myself it’ll be better next time.”

“Two down, an entire lifetime to go,” Finnick snarks.

They all have parts to play, forced to be actors on a damned stage, regardless whether the limelight is on them or not. Finnick can’t help but speculate that one day it won’t be enough.

“Your hair looks nice,” Finnick says, changing the subject, into something cheery, and Annie blushes.

“Coral fixed it,” Annie informs him, perking up. “It’s good of her, considering she’s the one who made it look like that for the reaping.”

“What about the tour?” Finnick leans forward, intrigued.

Annie mocks a shudder, scrunches up her face and Finnick chuckles. “I’m sure she’s got _plenty_ of ideas that she can’t wait to try out.”

 

 

“Finnick!” Muscida calls his name, cheerfully approaching him, as the door shuts behind him. “Are you going to yoga today?”

“Sure am,” Finnick says, matter of fact. “You didn’t think I’d let you and Annie have all the fun, did you?”

“No, of course not,” Muscida reassures him, laughing as they walk together. “I heard Edith is coming over for Mags’ dinner.”

“Is she now?” Finnick looks at Mags’ house as they pass it. “Well, the more the merrier, that’s what Mags’ likes to say.”

 

 

“Pearl in your mouth,” Julian hums, thinking as Tabitha and Finnick hover besides him, his pie shop quiet today. “I _believe_ I’ve heard it before.”

“From a book?” Tabitha frowns, knitting her brows together. “I don’t think…”

“Where else?” Finnick says. “It has to be in one.”

The question is which?

“I think it was about… books coming to life? The power of reading like never before? Or was it… fairy tales like never before?” Julian pinches the skin between his eyes. “It’s been a long time since I’ve read it, but that phrase always stuck with me.”

Tabitha snaps her fingers. “Annie said it! _That’s_ where I know it from.”

 “She did?” Finnick blinks.

“Yeah, once or twice,” Tabitha shrugs, “I don’t think she got it from that book series she’s reading though.”

“Yeah, no. I’ve read that book series a thousand times,” Finnick sighs, shaking his head. “There’s no way.”

“No matter, look! A customer,” Julian says, clapping his hands. “To work! Smile!”

 

 

“Do you think it would have been better if all the books we’ve read featured soulmates?” Librae mulls, drumming an uneven rhythm on the pages, which is only mildly distracting. “Sometimes I wonder.”

“Mm, it might make the happily-ever-afters a tad too predictable,” Finnick muses. “Although it would definitely cease love triangles, and _then_ where would we be?”

The thought has crossed his mind from to time, but he’s never had a definite answer for it. Sometimes he likes it, other times he doesn’t. There are too many variables, he supposes, and the Dark Days simply didn’t have the technology for Timers.

“Who knows?” Librae murmurs, a curious glint in her eyes. “After all, if Thomas Quash and Marinette Winters _were_ soulmates, would they have ended up together or would they have parted ways all the same?”

“Fuck you,” Finnick scowls.

“Ah, yes,” Librae says, droll, her voice void of emotion. Brimming with sarcasm. “You have finally found me out. That’s the dream, Finn, however did you guess?”

“You wound me,” Finnick replies, as theatrical as can be. “Me and my intelligence.”

“But there’s so little of it,” Librae snickers, lightly mocking. “How could I possibly do _that?_ ”

“Stranger things have happened,” Finnick ripostes, a playful lilt in his voice.

Librae inclines her head. Eyes wide. “You think so?”

“Better,” Finnick boasts, determined to get bragging rights this round. “I _know_ so!”

“Well, damn,” Librae stares at him, stunned, and Finnick blinks, wondering if she’s about to consider defeat. She continues. “I guess you _are_ the Great Finnick Odair after all.”

“I’m not — that’s not — _that’s not face, Librae!_ ” Finnick splutters, growing flustered by the second, because that is outright _dirty._

Librae bursts into stitches of laughter, triumphant. Finnick is flush with loser’s shame, embarrassed. Worse, mortified.

He didn’t expect Librae to use that card, twisting her acknowledgement of defeat into victory. It’s so stupidly strategic, and he hates her for it.

“I was fourteen, Librae!” Finnick hollers. “ _Fourteen!”_

Around Librae, he is absolutely a sore loser.

“Yeah,” Librae agrees, unbearably smug. “I know that. But then you kept on using it for five years straight.”

He makes a face. Scrunches up his nose. Ignores how hot his cheeks feel.

“Shut up.”

 

 

He called himself the Great Finnick Odair as a bit of a joke, he likes to think in hindsight. He’d said off the cuff in his interview with Caesar Flickerman. At the time, he had thought it was cute, something to hook the audience in. Nicknames weren’t uncommon, used to make certain tributes stand out.

The year after he won, everyone used his nickname, teasing him, mocking him, that he nearly grew sick of it. After a while, pursing his mouth and thinking about his self-proclaimed title, Finnick decided to embrace it. But none of the victors used it in the following year, as if they’d forgotten and moved on.

But the people in the Capitol didn’t. And if that was who they expected him to be, he might as well perfect the part.

Thus a dualism in him began, and he threw himself into the role, trying to ignore the cracks and rifts and self-loathing. For a long time, he became unable to tell the difference between his true self and persona, not sure if it was even worth distinguishing.

Finnick Odair was a slave to the Capitol, unable to do anything but bend to their whim. What was the point?

He did what he thought was necessary, tamping down his true feelings, performing as the Great Finnick Odair with a sharp grin plastered over his face.

For a good few years, it was enough. Not perfect, but enough.

By then, he’d distanced himself from his friends back at the Academy. He’d changed too much, practically unrecognizable from the person he used to be, and — and his friends didn’t understand. Couldn’t.

They thought it was the Games that had changed him, but it was more than that, and the things only got worse when he started going to the Capitol, seemingly of his own volition. Victor’s Village was too far away from the place that he originally lived in, so he sighed, and thought, _fine_.

Fine, he’d keep the memories, but discard the rest.

He didn’t need his old friends. He’d never even played poker with them.

But Finnick liked company, and found him spending time with the victors, who understood what he was going through, and over time, they became strange kindred, liking him no matter which guise he wore, indulging him when he tried out new personas as if he was wielding a weapon for the first time.

(He’d like to say that there was never a time when he was inept, that he’s always been a quick learner, but that’s only half-true.)

Strange as it seemed to him back then, he didn’t consider the victors his friends. They were family, because like it or not, they couldn’t get rid of each other. By virtue of being neighbours, of being forced to play nice for the Capitol, of witnessing the same horrors and being the only ones able to empathize, that’s what made them family.

Then there are the people who he talks to plenty, skimming the surface of seemingly caring, and remembering trivial details that one can’t help but notice. People like Amalia and Jules, Jake and Henley; he knows offhand details, simple circus acts that get smiles and chuckles from them. Oh, he likes them well enough, he told himself, but it’s just details he memorized, and it doesn’t mean much.

And then he met Annie — _befriended_ Annie — his _soulmate_ , out of all people, and well. He realized that he was protecting himself, refusing to let anyone in and —

Maybe it was the timing. Maybe it was the fact that he was no longer a teenager. Maybe the performance had become too much for him, and he couldn’t continuing going back and forth between being two people but —

He’d let people in without realizing it. Didn’t want to call them friends because he was scared of what that meant. He has a lot of friends, since becoming a victor, but still, there’s a part of him that keeps them at arm’s length.

When Annie looks at him, Finnick knows that he could never keep his guard up. She sees him for what he is, knows what lies underneath, because she’s seen in herself. Like calls to like, perhaps.

The truth is, he was supposed Annie under his wing, as the youngest of the victors, like Librae had with him, but what happened in reality was something completely different.

The Great Finnick Odair is necessary, Finnick knows, even without the embellishment of a title. It’s something he needs to be when he’s away from District Four — bright and handsome and alluring, precisely what the Capitol covets —

But he doesn’t have to be like that all the time, and there’s something liberating to Finnick about that as he’s slowly come to that realization.

 

 

“Lysander!” Annie says, eyes wide, pausing mid-conversation with another one of her attempts to try and marvellously fail at getting the poet correct, from snippets of pretty lines that Finnick recites or writes on his arms, on a corner of a napkin if he feels like making a pop quiz.

He can tell that Annie recognizes _some_ of them, but much prefers to play ignorant and wind him up it instead. Sometimes, when the café is virtually empty, Jules with join in with the guessing games, though whether he’s prone to giving correct answers or bafflingly wrong answers depends on his mood,

“I haven’t seen you for ages!” Annie continues, holding her hand and waving. “C’mere!”

“Holy _shit_ ,” Lysander says, happiness radiating from a mouthful of white teeth. “Never thought I’d run into you here, Annie.”

“Oh?” Annie looks amused, and Finnick tactfully remains quiet, content to observe. “Do you come here often?”

“More like one a blue moon,” Lysander laughs, arms outstretched, and Annie grins, stands up to hug him. “There’s some decent ice cream here.”

He’s not wrong.

“Can’t argue with you there,” Annie grins, sitting back down. “What have you been up to?”

“Ah, _well_ ,” Lysander clears his throat, pulls up a chair. “I’ve been preparing for a wedding.”

“Wow,” Annie says, blinking, taken aback. “I didn’t — who are you getting married to?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Lysander shakes his head, as soon as his bafflement clears. “No. That’s not — _I’m_ not the one getting married. _Jacob_ is. _I’m_ best man.”

“ _Jacob,_ ” Annie repeats, nodding. “Right. Of course. He’s getting married to Cecelia, right?”

“Yeah, they finally decided to tie the knot,” Lysander says, and he couldn’t be prouder. Then Lysander blinks and tilts his head, finally noticing Finnick. “Who’s your friend?”

“Billy,” Finnick says, because sometimes he can’t resist playing a part, changing his voice. “Howdy.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Annie is smothering a giggle.

He can’t resist, he winks.

 

 

“Wow,” Annie whispers, as they walk to the beach, succumbing to bubbles of laughter every once in a while, when they meet each other’s eyes. “Just _wow_ , Finn.”

“I told you, this beanie does _wonders_ ,” Finnick beams, hands in his pocket, his gaze turned upwards to meet the blue, blue sky. “I take it you reached the fifth book then?”

“Seventh, for your information,” Annie rolls her eyes. “I only figured out who you were because you kept on saying _howdy_ all the time. That is _not_ how I imagined Billy to be.”

Everyone says that, but honestly, that’s how Finnick has seen Billy. With a little bit of a twang and innate goofiness, sometimes it’s hard to reread and realize how much of a game changer Billy the Diamond really was.

“Give it time,” Finnick says, mysteriously. “You’ll see.”

Maybe he exaggerates the personality a little bit, but at least Librae gets it. Librae laughs, at least.

“I know,” Annie sighs, “I’ll keep on reading. Count how many _howdys_ that Billy really says.”

“Good,” Finnick grins, pleased. When the beach comes into sight, Finnick asks. “So, who’s Lysander?”

“An old friend. We met at the Academy. Actually, he was in the year above, but he had a brother in my class, so he dropped by often,” Annie explains, smiling from ear to ear. “He was the best in his class in swordplay, his brother liked to brag about it a lot. He was a bit of a class clown too.”

“Huh,” Finnick thinks back to his days at the Academy. It’s weird, beyond a few names, he can’t picture anyone’s faces, the friendships he fostered there fleeting and temporary and all but forgotten. He wonders if it was better to start making friends after reaching nineteen. “Sounds like an interesting guy.”

“He is,” Annie says, full of conviction. Then quietly, Annie adds. “It’s his soulmate that’s getting married.”

Finnick thinks back to their conversation. He recalls glancing at the Timer on Lysander’s wrist, noticing that the numbers had hit zero. He thinks back, and hazards a guess.

“To Cecelia?”

“Other one,” Annie shakes her head, smiling affectionately. “Jacob. They’ve been best friends ever since they’ve met all those years back in the Academy.”

“Ah,” Finnick says, and he can see the blue of the ocean sparkle, practically taste the salt breeze. “And now he writes the best man’s speech. How sweet.”

“I don’t think Jacob would have it any other way,” Annie says, reminiscing. There’s a faraway look in her eyes.

It makes Finnick wonder if it was because of Lysander and Jacob being soulmates that Annie asked for him to be her friend when they first met.

It’s not that Finnick thought that being friends with your soulmate was impossible, but he thought it rare.

To know your soulmate was to know the love of your life.

Maybe Annie had unconsciously surrounded herself with people who were naturally more unorthodox than the Capitol had even presumed. Maybe it was something else.

After all, how the districts view the Games was drastically different to how the Capitol viewed them. Why shouldn’t that be case for Timer and soulmates as well?

He’d spent too much time in the Capitol, perhaps; spouting their lies at face value, and forgetting the truth as he did so.

That’s not it. Finnick knows. He hadn’t forgotten, he’d merely shared the Capitol’s views about Timers ever since he was young. He was a romantic, he believed in destiny, he thought that meeting his soulmate would be simple and the reality was anything but.

Maybe he’d changed his mind about some things regarding soulmates — they could be anything, not just romantic — but at the core of it, Finnick sentiments were the same.

To know your soulmate was to know the love of your life. If you let yourself.

“Everything alright?” Annie says, tone light and careful. “You haven’t said anything for a while.”

“Peachy keen,” Finnick says, flippantly. “I’m just psyching myself up to go fishing.”

“You really think you’ll catch more fish this time around?” Annie says, smirking, a challenge in her voice. “I know all the tricks in the trade.”

“But do you have _luck?”_ Finnick banters back, all too ready to reply.

“Even better, I have _pluck,_ ” Annie retorts, and freezes. “I don’t know why I just said that.”

“Do over?” Finnick asks, not even bothering to hide the amusement from his gaze, as he watches her face turn a pretty shade of pink.

“Do over,” Annie agrees, mumbling.

“Ah,” Finnick teases, much more theatrical this time around, and it makes Annie snort. Success! “But do you have _luck?”_

“Don’t need it,” Annie says, regaining her composure, and holding her chin up high. “I bested you once, I’ll best you twice.”

“Better?” Finnick asks, dryly. He’s pretty sure she’s used that expression before. But, well, who is he to judge if people repeat their script?

“Yup,” Annie nods, satisfied, her impish grin brighter than the sun.

 

 

“Actually,” Annie says, after they’ve thrown their first round of stones into the sea, a precursor to their fishing competition. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, and I just… didn’t know how.”

“I lost a bet,” Finnick answers, and Annie stares at him, confused. “That’s why I’ve been working at _The Pier_ this month.”

“Oh!” Annie blinks, and tucks her hair behind her ear. “That’s good to know, but that wasn’t it.”

“Alright, well,” Finnick says, steadying himself. “Whenever you’re ready.”

It hasn’t escaped his notice that Annie has been acting a little weird lately. He’d chalked it up to the Games, but the more time passes, the less inclined he is to believe it.

Nervously, Annie crouches, picking up a handful of stones and turns to the sea, tossing them into the water. Not one by one, as they’re wont to do, but all in one go.

The water ripples, the stone plummet, and Annie watches.

There’s an interlude of silence, and Finnick is nothing if not patient.

Annie looks at him for a long time, knitting her brows, and biting her lip.

“Okay,” Annie exhales. “All my life, I swore, that it would be my choice. My terms. My decision. Meeting you, my soulmate, didn’t change that. But then I… I started… I started wanting to be more than just friends with you.”

Finnick kind of stops breathing then.

“Actually, um, I’m in love with you, Finn,” Annie says, her sea green eyes piercing right through him, and the world that surrounds them is completely still. The ocean is quiet. The waves are softer than the drumbeat of his heart. Annie speaks, her voice as clear as glass, sweeter than a siren’s song, louder than the whirlpool of his thoughts. “I wanted you to know.”

He thinks, _no_.

He thinks, _you can’t be._

He thinks, _they’ll kill you._

Suddenly, everything feels too fast, the crash of the tide against the shore, the entire spectrum of emotion that filters through the numbing from, from agony to bliss to agony once more.

“Why?” Finnick whispers, barely audible. He can barely hear the sound of his own voice, above the wind that razes through the grass, the sea that pleats sand, the horrible echoing shudder of a heartbeat.

But Annie looks at him, and there’s nothing but love to be found in her face, and Finnick freezes, panics, thinks: _she knows_ —

There was a reason he’d kept his mouth shut, and to realize it was all for nothing —

_Fuck._

He can keep other people’s secrets but he can’t keep his own?

“We’d dance around each other forever if I didn’t say anything,” Annie says, slowly, her words measured and careful and quiet. “I just. I wanted you to know how I felt about you.”

Finnick sits down, his legs like jelly. He feels the sand in his fingers slip, tries to focus on breathing, inhale, exhale, but his head is still spinning, dizzying with the newfound knowledge, the fear, the _thought_ —

He looks at Annie, stricken. Wonders what expression she sees on his face, if he can be read so easily.

“But I thought you hated soulmates,” Finnick says, a plea, of sorts. He’s so close to begging her to take it back, undo it, like tearing a Timer across a wrist —

“If that was true, we wouldn’t have become friends,” Annie says, and Finnick’s mind jumps back to the time when he first visited Annie’s house, trying to find some books, and Annie explained that even though she had never wanted a soulmate, she didn’t mind him. It was the concept she hated, the expectation of it, more than anything else. He remembers dust, sunlight streaming through the windows, a pensive note in her voice. “I don’t hate you, Finn.”

It’s not like Librae, who avoids all and any possibility of her soulmate, unless it’s to fume, and it’s not like Muscida, who believes in the inevitably, that there is no other possible outcome for them.

This is Annie, who wanted her soulmate to be a friend, who believed in making her own decisions instead of relying on some destiny driven device.

This is Annie, straight forward, direct, honest, giving him the choice, the chance that deep down, part of him has always wanted.

This is Annie, telling Finnick that she’s in love with him.

And he can’t accept it.

He just _can’t._

 

 

Finnick belongs to the Capitol, Annie belongs in District Four.

Everything is against them, Finnick thinks, and smothers a hysterical laugh. Somehow, the sentiment is very Annie, who defies the Capitol almost unconsciously, he’s noticed. Not in big gestures, but in subtler, nuanced ways that people so often disregard, and miss in its entirety. She might be known as the mad girl, but only Annie has escaped the Capitol in away the others never can.

Would she really be okay with it? Finnick muses, troubled, as he stares at his wrist, the ghost of an itch, a memory of blood. Then again, he thinks, Annie wouldn’t have told him if she wasn’t.

He doesn’t want to self-destruct by — by playing it safe, by being cautious, by adhering to the unspoken rules that the Capitol gave him.

It was never said that he couldn’t fall in love with someone, so long as he continued with his ‘visits’, but Finnick could read between the lines. He knew it was better for everyone if he buried his heart.

He thinks about Librae’s words, the bitter shape of her mouth as she spat _she will never love you the way you want her to_ at him, back when their soulmates were pure fantasy and they were young and drunk and he had laughed. Said something even crueller in response, maybe.

He’d clung to it, because in a twisted and selfish sort of way, it was hope.

If his soulmate never fell in love with him, he’d be able to protect her.

 

 

“Shit,” Harry says, peering at Finnick while he pushes his glasses up his nose, an unwelcome sight for the morning. Harry looks a little bemused, but his eyes show a different emotion that Finnick refuses to decipher. “What am I going to tell Marie?”

“Nothing,” Finnick grimaces, groaning as he sits up, head pounding as he registers the fact that he’s sprawled over the sofa, his legs in the air, and flimsily tries to right him up. “Thought we were friends.”

He has thousands of memories about fist bumps to back him up on this. Harry might be one of Aunt Maria’s oldest friends, but he was Finnick’s friend too. That counted for something.

“We are,” Harry says, calmly. It’s a little too patient sounding for Finnick’s liking, but at least he’s not inflecting a disappointed cadence in his voice. Yet. “Finnick, you haven’t been like this for a long, long time.”

“Because I’m the golden boy?” Finnick mutters acerbically. He lowers his head because it’s better than looking at the bright light of morning, better than reading an expression on Harry’s face that he already knows he won’t like, better than opening his mouth and saying _you’re not my aunt._

“Since when did I care about the golden boy?” Harry says, surprise colouring his voice, and Finnick jerks his head up then, desperate to see Harry’s face, doubting the sincerity of it.

Harry’s eyes are grey, serious, focused.

It’s too early to be sober, but Finnick wills himself to be.

“No, Finnick,” Harry says, meaningfully. “It’s _never_ been about the golden boy, or the Great Finnick Odair, or whatever you want to call him.”

Finnick averts his gaze, slightly flush with shame. He didn’t mean to _say_ that. Not out loud. He _knows_ that Maria and Harry have never seen him as the golden boy, as the Great Finnick Odair. He’s never asked them what they’ve seen him as, when he was pathetic and depressed and trying new guises as a means to cope, aware that he was forced to partake in a world that they could never enter.

They’re the only two people who know Finnick before and after and love him just the same.

He closes his eyes. Breathes.

He feels less shaky after that.

“It’s not like that,” Finnick murmurs, keeping his voice low. He knows exactly to what Harry is referring to. He doesn’t remember the year he turned sixteen very well, but he knows that it wasn’t pleasant for anyone. And still, he forced himself to smile, a puppet on string, desperate to guard those he loved. “This is different.”

“Explain,” Harry blinks, owlish. “What’s it like?”

“ _Not_ like that,” Finnick insists, heaving out a sigh. “I just… needed to wallow for a while.”

“Oh,” Harry says, letting it sink in. His grey eyes flick to the side, scanning the messy house Finnick calls a home. “How’s that going?”

“Oh, you know,” Finnick shrugs. Killer headache notwithstanding, he’d say it’s going pretty well. “So-so.”

“Uh huh,” Harry clucks his tongue, ever the sceptic. “You feel like talking about it?”

“Just between us?”

“Sure.”

“Okay,” Finnick nods, exhaling slowly. “But first, I have to ask: why did you break up with Jenny?”

Harry is silent.

It’s an old advertising line — if you find your soulmate, then you’re happy for the rest of your life.

But that doesn’t stop people from taking the bait, getting the Timer as soon as they turn twelve and hoping that they don’t have long to wait. A lot of soulmates, who chose to be together, are happy ‘til their dying days.

So why didn’t it work out between Harry and Jenny?

Harry smiles sadly, and it’s not a smile at all, if Finnick’s being honest, but he refuses to look away, refuses to take his question back. He wants to know.

“Alright. Fine,” Harry sighs, conceding. “Truth is, it became too hard for us to live up to our expectations, our idealized selves. We weren’t what the other person wanted, in the end.”

“Was it,” Finnick licks his lips, searching for an answer, in his memories, in Harry’s words, and there are too many gaps for him to piece it together. “Was it always like that?”

Finnick had thought them happy. As long as he’d known them, Harry and Jenny had been happy. The way they’d gravitated to each other’s touch, the levity they brought to each other, the look of pure adoration that graced their faces whenever they stared at each other. Hell, they’d even held hands like it was the most passionate thing they’d ever done.

At fifteen, he had wanted a romance with his soulmate like that.

Where did it go wrong?

“Not at first, no,” Harry admits, eventually, his shoulders slumping. His navy shirt is too big for him, Finnick observes. “But that’s what happened.”

“Oh,” Finnick says, leaning his head back. He doesn’t fully understand, since there’s probably more to it than that, but he can relate. He knows what it’s like to be disillusioned with your soulmate. Maybe he’s too naïve, he thought disillusionment could only happen at the beginning, not the middle, not at the end.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Harry agrees, offering him his hand, and Finnick’s stomach rumbles. Harry chuckles, softly. “Want me to make you breakfast too?”

“It might help,” Finnick smiles, breezily. He can be cute when he wants to be, and Harry laughs again, grants him that small kindness.

 

 

“It’s Annie,” Finnick admits, and his heart aches inside his chest. Harry breaks some eggs.

“Subtle, Marie. So subtle,” Harry mutters, stirring the eggs in a cup. “Now her quote about the pearls makes much more sense.”

“That’s my aunt for you,” Finnick smiles, fond. “Wouldn’t change her for the world.”

“Neither would I,” Harry approves, smiling back. “Any luck?”

“Nope,” Finnick shakes his head. “I keep guessing random authors, and nothing.”

He’ll remain vigilant with the reading, see if he can find that particular simile, or get side tracked whenever Aunt Maria thinks up another unsubtle quote to inject into the conversation and see if they pick up on it or not.

Harry grins cheekily.

“No way,” Finnick stares at him. “You _didn’t._ ”

“Two days ago,” Harry reveals, and Finnick buries his head in his hands, emitting a high pitched whine. “That’s what happens when you wallow. You missed out on the right book.”

“You’re not going to tell me what it is, are you?” Finnick mumbles, voice muffled.

“Not a chance,” Harry nods, gleefully. “I _will_ tell you that dessert is going to be profiteroles. Delicious.”

They fall into a lull of silence after that, with Finnick silently begrudging Harry his victory and a well-chosen pastry.

The smell of butter burns in the air.

“It’s Annie,” Finnick begins again, and this time, Harry doesn’t interrupt, just nods and listens. “I… I mean, I guess I always knew that I would end up with my soulmate, but now, when it finally happens, after everything… I just. I don’t know if I _can_.”

He wants to say it out loud, declare to everyone that he’s in love with Annie Cresta, her spark, her penchant for making things, but he’s scared.

He’s terrified of the consequences.

“Can I protect her if I’m so _transparent_ when it comes to Annie Cresta?” Finnick heaves out, digging his nails deep into the meat of his palm. He’s trembling, wishing he wasn’t, but it feels like the only thing that is holding his molecules together is his willpower aided by a flash of pain. His knuckles tighten, and Finnick wishes that that the anguish that floods through him wasn’t so overwhelming.

But his chest is tight, juddering, rapid, and he just — he doesn’t know what he should do — if there’s anything he _can_ do —

“ _Breathe,_ Finnick,” Harry says, sharply, and Finnick wills himself to calm down, wiping his eyes before his cheeks become tear stained.

Harry says nothing until Finnick nods and looks up at him. There’s still not enough air in his lungs, but Finnick’s thoughts are becoming clearer, calmer, more rational. For good measure, Finnick rubs his nose.

“You alright?”

“Not really,” Finnick says, weakly, staring at the omelette in front of him, while Harry rummages the draws for cutlery. “But thanks for asking.”

His stomach rumbles.

“Dig in,” Harry says, and Finnick does.

“It’s like — everyone knows how I feel about her, and no matter what I do, I just can’t hide it,” Finnick tells Harry, stuffing the omelette into his mouth. Tries to ignore the pang in his chest, tells himself that he’s mistaken it for more self-loathing instead, that he’s a coward, and his heart won’t listen. “I don’t understand — I’ve been in love with her for _months_ , and nobody noticed then, so what am I — _what am I_ —”

“Think,” Harry interrupt, clinical, almost like how a teacher would at the Academy. Forcing Finnick to re-evaluate everything he’s ever known, analysing his patterns again and again. “What’s changed?”

“I’ve been distracted. During the Games, I was worried about her,” Finnick admits. He couldn’t get Annie out of his thoughts, wondering if she was okay, terrified about the possibility that the Capitol might dispose of her the first chance they got. Not because Finnick loved her, but because they hated her.

Librae had said that he’d done a good job of hiding it. Gloss hadn’t said a thing, but somehow, Finnick suspected that he knew. Maybe the other victors hadn’t noticed because they didn’t know him that well, or because they were more focused on the Games. But still, the possibility lingered in his mind, wondering if he could have been more careful.

“Annie is fine,” Harry states, and Finnick nods.

“Yeah, I know,” Finnick wets his lips, struggling to verbalize his feelings. Several times he opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. “I know, I just. I didn’t, back then. I wasn’t sure what would happen to her.”

There have been other mad victors before, Finnick knows in a detached manner. Annie isn’t the first and she won’t be the last. But nobody ever talks about what happened to them.

Maybe he should have talked to Mags, before his wallowing began, asked what she knows, asked if those victors emerged after years of being known as ‘mad’ or if they stayed in their districts, asked if they were even given that option.

“I thought — as long as I acted as I usually did, no one would suspect a thing. But Gloss said I’d changed,” Finnick says, his mouth like cotton. “And I thought, that made sense: it’s been two years since we’d seen each other, but —”

“Use that,” Harry says, abruptly, thoughtfully. Harry meets his gaze and continues. “You’re not a teenager anymore, Finn. _That’s_ what they were expecting, and now’s the time to reveal that a new side of you that exists.”

“And what about the part of me that can’t seem to stop caring about Annie?” Finnick asks, bitter, his throat parched. It doesn’t matter what persona he tries to put on, somehow that aspect of him still remains, like gum on his shoe.

“I don’t know,” Harry looks around, and Finnick wonders if the answer can really be found by being inspired by a strangely messy mansion. Harry exhales. “How about this: relax. Don’t talk about Annie in the Capitol. You know that the Capitol didn’t hurt her during the Seventy-Second Games. You know that you did everything you could to prevent that, you succeeded, so keep doing that. You know that Annie is capable, she’s smart, she’ll do all she can as well. It’s on all the victors, I reckon, not just you. You have all this knowledge to fall back on, so remember: the worst thing you can do is panic. But if you’re still worried, I think you should talk to Mags, to Ron, to all of the victors so you’re on the same page. Think you can do that?”

“Okay,” Finnick agrees. He can do that. He can channel his worry into knitting, into his knots. He can do that, tell himself that it’s just another function for his coping mechanisms. “I can do that.”

“Next year will be better,” Harry says, and it sounds like a promise that Finnick wants so desperately to believe in.

“Yeah,” Finnick agrees, finishing the last of his omelette. He’ll make sure of it.”

 

 

After he cleans himself up, Finnick goes to his aunt

“Come and help me put the clothes out,” Aunt Maria says, and Finnick obliges.

There’s something comforting to be found in the routine of it, the warm sun and gentle breeze, the ability to switch his mind off and just _be._

“Harry talked to me,” Finnick says, apropos of nothing. It feels good, to get this off his chest. He hasn’t confided in his aunt for a while, and he’s missed it. He looks at her, perplexed. “Was he always so rational?”

He remembers Harry best by sly smiles and quiet jokes, a calm demeanour and an aura of likability. Finnick has memories of secret pacts and scraped knees, and being tiny as Harry lifts him in his arms. He remembers the many times Harry fiddles with his glasses when he’s feeling anxious. What he doesn’t remember is Harry giving advice out, far more prone to quiet support and faint grins that disappeared as easily as a trick of the light.

“It sneaks up on a person,” Maria says, shaking her head, and the smile in her voice is as clear as the bright blue sky. “But that’s Harry for you.”

“He said I should talk to you,” Finnick says, peg in hand.

“About what?”

Finnick holds his breath. Lets it go. “About my soulmate.”

“Ah,” Maria says, understanding in an instant. “I can’t make that decision for you, Finn.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Finnick says, plaintive. He stops and sighs. He can’t talk about it while he’s holding a t-shirt in place, grabbing a peg. Expelling all the air from his lungs, Finnick places his hands on his hips. “I’m looking for some advice.”

“Alright, Finnick Finnegan Odair, what can I do for you?” Aunt Maria says, and Finnick hasn’t heard his name like that in a long time.

“You can start by remembering that my middle name isn’t actually Finnegan,” Finnick peevishly mutters, in vain trying to deny it.

“It is too. Besides, it was your grandfather’s name,” Aunt Maria reminds him, and Finnick has plenty of memories at being called Finnick Finnegan because it made him sound like a mad sea dog.

And then Scottie learnt of his name, and decided to call him Finn-Finn. And then Erin decided to join in.

Mercifully, they dropped it the older they got.

“I’m aware,” Finnick says, dryly. He pauses, regaining hold of his frustration and squashes it. “Anyway, Aunt Maria, if you had the chance to meet your soulmate, and fall in love with them, despite everything that’s happened, you were somehow, miraculously, given the chance to date them, would you? Even though it might be dangerous?”

His aunt hums. “It _sounds_ like you’re asking me to make your decision for you.”

“Not if I ask you to answer in pseudo-cryptic bullshit,” Finnick rolls his advice. “Which you like to call _advice._ ”

Maria laughs, entertained. “Alright then, Finn. Pseudo-cryptic bullshit coming right up. Ask yourself this: is the risk worth it? Weigh the pros and the cons, take as long as you need to answer it. If it isn’t, don’t do it. If it is, go for you.”

“Even if it only lasts five minutes?”

“You gave it a shot,” Maria says, sounding wistful. “That’s better than nothing, right?”

“Bullshit,” Finnick tousles his hair, and tries to find his answer in the sky.

 

 

There’s no certainty that finding your soulmate is proof of a happy ending.

He’s known that for a while.

 

 

Finnick thinks about it while he swims.

He’d be fine, he thinks, if he and Annie were just friends, if that meant that she was always going to be part of his life. Annie would be a permanent fixture, a safe harbour that he could call home. And maybe he _would_ always want a little bit more, but he’s no stranger to denying himself what he truly wants.

That’s one way it could go.

He thinks of another, all the dancing that they’ve done, with the seagulls as spectators. How his gaze lingers when he sees the dimples in her smile, and he reaches out to fill the space between her fingertips, and when he kisses her, the quiet defiance that she radiates becomes a part of him.

Those aren’t the reasons why he fell in love, though.

It’s the way Annie turns gleeful when the sky promises a squall, thunder and lightning. It’s the way Annie is snarky and has a general disinterest of books, but she’ll still humour him and curl up to read the books he gets most insistent about, no matter how slow her pace is, and how she remembers specific details and conveniently forget others. It’s the way her mouth sets into a particular annoyed line when he uses the word nefarious incorrectly, and she pauses, internally debating whether she should go over a lesson not learned, and then she sighs, and fucking goes for it, because she refuses to learn either.

Finnick considers the reasons, weighs the pros and cons, turning them over like stones in his hands, and lets himself exhale.

_Okay,_ Finnick thinks, floating in the water, lazily kicking his legs, staring at strewn clouds. _Okay._

 

 

He sneaks into Mags’ home, because Mags makes the best kind of food, and Finnick is hunger and too lazy to rummage through his own fridge. His stomach announces itself before Finnick gets to, unfortunately, and Mags looks up, welcomes him with a smile.

“You were being dramatic, weren’t you?” Finnick says, figuring it out belatedly. “That whole _call it… revenge_ schtick?”

“What, you’re the only one who gets to be a diva?” Mags says, eyes twinkling, her gentle admonishment causing Finnick to duck his head and hide his blue.

“Well,” Finnick drawls, “maybe.”

His stomachs rumbles. Louder.

“A diva’s gotta eat, right?” Finnick teases, only half serious.

Mags laughs. “You’re lucky I made cake yesterday.”

Finnick beams. “You’re the best!”

“So I hear,” Mags smiles, as they walk together to the kitchen and Finnick makes himself comfortable on the island counter, but not before he grabs some plates. “My grandkids like to tell me frequently.”

“Edith didn’t raise them to be liars, Mags,” Finnick says, glancing out the window, to the garden, where Scott and Erin are playing… and Annie’s with them. “Oh.”

“Hmm?” Mags blinks, following Finnick’s gaze, then returns to look at him with a thoughtful, if scheming twinkle in her eye. “Do you want to go and offer them cake too?”

It’s an obvious set up, but to be fair, Erin and Scott really _do_ like chocolate cake.

“The more the merrier,” Finnick nods, seeing right through her, but going along with it all the same, grabbing a tray and piling on the plates. “Are you going to enjoy the sun, too?”

“In a few minutes,” Mags says, smiling. “Tea first.”

“Alrighty,” Finnick says, lifting the tray up and stepping outside, where the air is warm and the breeze is soft, and all three of them life up their head and great Finnick with a welcome grin.

“Cake!” Erin declares excitedly, eyes on the prize.

“That’s right,” Finnick says, placing the tray down and making himself comfortable on the grass. “I asked Mags very nicely if I could bring you some, and she said _yes._ ”

Annie snorts, her shoulders shaking, and before she makes any more sound, claps her hand over her mouth.

“Thanks, Finn,” Scott says, a toothy grin on his face as Finnick hands over the cake.

Erin, the little mischievous child that she is, has already grabbed her share. And Annie’s, since she so nicely asked.

“So, what have you been doing here?” Finnick asks, after they finish eating. He licks his lips, still able to taste the chocolate.

“This and that,” Erin says, lifting her chin, aiming to sound mysterious.

“We played boules for a while,” Scott answers, much more bluntly, and Erin says _hey!_ Scott ignores her. “Now Annie is teaching us how to make daisy chains.”

“It’s all in the nails,” Annie says, lifting her wrist, and there lies a daisy chain bracelet, hanging daintily upon her.

“You’ve combined two of your favourite things,” Finnick notes with a smile. “I’m impressed.”

“It had to happen one day, right?” Annie teases, and Finnick rolls his eyes.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Finnick begins, leaning forward to soak up the sun, her gorgeous sea green gaze. “Annie —”

“Really?” Annie says, lifting her eyebrow, teeth gleaming, inviting. “You didn’t think I’d combine gardening and jewellery making one day?”

“Is _that_ what you were referring to?” Finnick drawls, tilting his head, and yeah, he’s flirting. Dancing. “Huh.”

“Aw, I’m sorry,” Annie taunts, not at all apologetic, her tone deceptively pleasant sounding, the undercurrent of laughter as clear as the sky. “Did you think I was referring to your ego?”

Finnick doesn’t dignify her with an answer. He _was_ , but that’s not the point.

Instead, Finnick changes tactics. “You think you’re hilarious, but you’re not.”

“Really? Wow,” Annie says, incredulous, delightfully smug. Her smile widens. “This, coming from the guy who liked to use the word _nefarious_ at every possible excuse?”

“It is a word that _should_ be used in every single conversation,” Finnick declares, emphatic. He folds his arms across his chest. “And that’s that.”

“Okay, Finn,” Annie says, placating, and rolls her eyes, evidently disagreeing but deciding to refrain from commenting any longer. At least in front of the children. “Want me to make you a daisy chain?”

“Only if it’s a crown,” Finnick answers, twisting a daisy stalk between his fingers, forward and back, until it’s just a blur of white and yellow.

“I don’t know how big it’ll have to be to fit your ego,” Annie grins, playful, as she considers it. “But I’ll make it work.”

“Oh, we’re back to _that_ are we?” Finnick groans, tossing his daisy to the air, and lying on the ground.

“Couldn’t resist,” Annie says, her smile softening as she looks down. “Give me a couple of minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Finnick murmurs, absently, picking another daisy and remembers an old superstition that involved plucking the petals apart.

He looks up, wondering where Erin and Scott have gone — to the other side of the garden, chasing each other, too absorbed in their own world to eavesdrop. Mags is still nowhere in sight.

Finnick rolls onto his belly, propping himself with his elbows and lowers his voice. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t give you an answer back then.”

He shouldn’t have walked away like that, muttering _I have to go_ amid his babbling nonsense —  but his chest had felt too tight, it was hard to think, and he’d been so overwhelmed that instinctively, he knew that he couldn’t stay there, on the shore, with nothing but rocks in his hands.

Maybe Annie had known that, giving him space, letting him be.

“It was a lot to take in,” Finnick admits, truthful, and Annie stops, has stopped stringing daisies together ever since he started talking, her attention entirely on him. “You know?”

“I wasn’t… expecting an answer right away, Finn,” Annie starts, digging her thumb into a verdant stalk. “I just wanted to tell you how I feel.”

“Still,” Finnick says, awe in his voice. “That was a confession. You… confessed. I… you… soulmates….”

He doesn’t think he could have ever have done it, too paranoid, too careful, too determined to keep things safe by keeping the status quo.

And, well, part of him still can’t believe that Annie, his soulmate, confessed to him.

“ _After_ I came to terms with it,” Annie huffs, her annoyance shining through, and Finnick can’t help it; he _smiles_ , so charmed and enchanted and beguiled by her.

It’s the most Annie Cresta to ever Annie Cresta, and she’s so delightfully crabby about it.

“It wasn’t easy,” Annie mutters, oblivious.

Only Annie, Finnick thinks, stupidly besotted; only _Annie_ would fall in love with her soulmate and be irked by it.

“I’ll bet,” Finnick snorts, and Annie makes a face at him.

“That’s not it,” Annie says, shaking her head. “It’s just. It would have been easier to accept if we weren’t soulmates.”

“You think?” Finnick muses, not so sure. Even without the soulmate complication, he’s still desired by the Capitol.

“For me, at least,” Annie amends with a shrug, pausing. “Probably.”

“Probably,” Finnick echoes, softly, smiling a little bit. He doesn’t think it would be easier for him, if that was the case. Well, maybe he wouldn’t have freaked out at the Capitol, staring at the place his scar should be and feigning admiration for his bracelet instead. Maybe he’d have never fallen for her, or maybe he would have all the same. But still, either way, he’d have hesitated, wondering if it was better to silently suffer and pine, and decide that it was better to say nothing at all. Just like a romance heroine, head too caught up in fantasies. “Possibly.”

The wind should be blowing in his hair, right? That’s the cliché that comes next.

“So?” Annie asks, peering at him, hopeful and sweet, and his heart twists in his chest, like rope in his hands. This is the moment. “Do you have an answer or…?”

“Yeah,” Finnick murmurs, lashes lowering. He could think about it some more, he knows, but he’s made up his mind, and nothing will sway him. Finnick looks at him, and his heart skips a beat. He grins. “I’m ready to wear that crown.”

“Of course you are,” Annie deadpans; rolling her eyes, and gently places the crown of daisies on top of his head.

Maybe he’s playing unfair, but Finnick takes advantage of the moment by curving his hands around her wrists, his fingers encircling around her bird bones, while Annie’s attention is elsewhere. His grip is gentle and feather light, so she can slip free without any resistance, if she wants.

He’s not even certain that Annie is aware of the way he holds her, lowering her hands to his cheek, his jawline, his neck.

“Huh,” Annie says, considering, chewing her lip and looking solely at the daisy crown that rests on Finnick’s beautiful mop of curls. Her breath fans over Finnick’s face, and Finnick wonders if he should steal a kiss. She leans back slightly. “Guess it’s too small for your ego, after all.”

“You planned that,” Finnick accuses, but there’s no real vitriol. “And you say you’re not nefarious.”

“Maybe I am,” Annie’s gaze flicks down, her sea green eyes meeting his, and there’s a ghost of a smirk, a hint of a challenge, a wingbeat of hope. “How about you?”

“Well,” Finnick drawls, and just like that, her hands slides out of his hold and press into the ground. The distance between them remains the same, as they wait with baited breath. Still close, still intimate, still on the precipice of being lovers. His heart stutters in his chest, and Finnick nods, bashful. “Maybe I am, too.”

“Yeah,” Annie grins, eyes sparkling, _knowing,_ and Finnick wonders how he could ever be so lucky. “That’s what I thought.”

He leans in — only to recoil back like he’s been scalded by hot water, and see a boule thrown by Erin land nearby. His heart is fluttering lightning fast.

When Mags joins them in the garden, there’s a curious glint in her eyes, and Finnick’s cheeks burn bright to a crisp. 

 

 

“You look happy,” Aunt Maria says, looking up, successfully luring Finnick to her house because there’s the smell of freshly baked cookies that he can never resist. “Positively radiant.”

And suddenly, it’s like that time when he was fourteen and burst into tears. Suddenly, it’s like that time when he was sixteen and Maria sees him after he visits the Capitol and he flinched from her touch. Suddenly, it’s like the aftermath of the Seventieth Hunger Games, and he can’t help but spill the beans about his soulmate.

He’s never been able to hide the truth from his aunt. Sometimes he doesn’t have to say it, she just knows.

“Yeah,” Finnick says, hand curled against the back of his neck, and unable to stop smiling. “Turns out you’ve got some pretty good advice.”

“Really?” Aunt Maria smirks, entertained. “I thought I told you some pseudo-cryptic bullshit.”

 

 

“Annie,” Finnick says, his shift at _The Pier_ over, as he’s about to head home. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Annie says, cheeks dusted pink, pretty as she wears a blue dress. “You, um, want to go somewhere?”

“Like a…” Finnick swallows, blinking rapidly. He looks around in case she’s talking to someone else, then turns his voice into a whisper. “Like a _date?_ ”

“Yeah,” Annie confirms, tucking her hair behind her ear, looking at him through her eyelashes. “How about it?”

“Sure,” Finnick says, breathlessly, the easiest thing in the world to agree, follow his heart’s desire. “I could eat.”

“Great! I know just the place!”

 

 

They go for a date at Jules’ café, intent on catching the sunset.

At first, it doesn’t feel much different to the previous times that he’s spent time hanging out with Annie. After all, he recites lines of poetry, and she still guesses incorrectly, giggling a little when his eyes bug out, because _how could she be so obviously wrong?_ How could she so _nefarious?_ And then Annie rolls her eyes in response, telling that’s not what nefarious means, and they wind each other up in ways they always have, and Finnick suspects, always will.

The things that stay the same between them is a comfort.

But some things that change — the way Finnick catches himself looking at Annie —  _letting_ himself look at Annie —  with all the affection he feels for her, and when she catches his gaze, he doesn’t look away. Her face softens, dimples dancing, and his heart swells three times the size.

“How did you change your mind?” Finnick asks, soft, stabbing his ice cream a little bit, but still, he asks the question that’s been on his mind for the past few days.

Annie breathes out, saying nothing at first.

There are dark circles under her eyes, and her hair is mussed affectionately by the wind, but she’s still the prettiest person that Finnick has ever seen.

“Well,” Annie shrugs, folding her arms over her chest, frowning as she glares at the person playing guitar in the café, a new feature that Jules’ has been wanting to introduce for a while. “I realized that it was up to me in end. What I want. How I feel. No one gets to make that decision but me.”

“I can’t imagine anyone talking you into it,” Finnick admits.

Annie snorts. “Coral tried. Believe me, even before we had turned twelve, she was _convinced_ it was going to be a sure thing.”

“Did you bite her head off too?” Finnick teases, only thinking a little bit about Muscida and how contrite he was afterwards.

“Only when I was in a really bad mood,” Annie mutters, blushing as she looks down. It’s adorable how she’s trying to hide her smile. “ _Anyway,_ I started thinking about the Capitol and how they popularized the whole soulmates thing, and so you’d _think_ they’d want us to be together. But then, they give us these roles, they’d have people believe that you’re lascivious and I’m mad, so you could say that they don’t. And I thought about it some more, and came to the conclusion of _fuck ‘em._ ”

“Fuck ‘em,” Finnick echoes, with a wicked grin, savouring the taste of spite, the joy it is to see Annie cuss. He likes the sound of it.

“I want to be with you, Finn,” Annie says, brimming with sincerity. “Me. The person I am now.”

“Because you’re in love with me,” Finnick says, ducking his head and feeling flustered. He still feels stunned when he says it, believes it with every fibre of being, shocked that it’s reality.

“Well. That helps,” Annie concedes, impishly smirking when she catches his eye. “It was a little weird when I realized it, you know? I kept thinking back to the first time we met, and how there was no possible way I could have fallen in love with you then.”

“You didn’t,” Finnick is compelled to point out.

“Yeah,” Annie says, exhaling. It’s a little strange to think of those days, when they weren’t so close, when they were hardly on speaking terms. Back when her boyfriend was still alive.

Maybe it’s selfish of him, but Finnick wonders what would have changed if Neptune Jones had lived. How different would things have becomes? Maybe Annie would have remained dedicated and love with Jones to this day, maybe Annie would have still decided to befriend Finnick, maybe Annie would have fallen in love with him all the same. Who can say?

It wasn’t just that, though, Finnick knows. Annie had her own shit to get through, and Finnick had thought it best to let her be, to recover on her own terms. Ron was good at helping, had years to cope with the aftermath, knew what to say instinctively, better than Finnick could have been.

Finnick doesn’t think he could have fallen in love with Annie either at that point, too fucked up about so many things. It was impossible to let anyone in, to even trust them at arm’s length.

“But then, I’m not that Annie anymore, Finn, and you’re not who I thought you were either,” Annie states, nostalgic, her cheek in her hand. “We’ve both changed since then, and when we became friends, finally, I thought that it would be enough. I didn’t expect to… well, you know.”

“Mm, me neither,” Finnick says. “But I’m glad we did.”

“Yeah,” Annie smiles at him. “Something changed, though I couldn’t tell you when, or how, but it did. I looked forward to spending time with you, not just because we were friends. Though, if you asked me back then, I’d have probably denied it. And then, one day, it became so clear to me that I wanted to share tomorrow with you that it seemed pointless to fight it.”

“Oh,” Finnick says, his breath taken away, the poetry in her words.

“I didn’t fall in love with you because you’re my soulmate, though I’m sure that’s what some people with say,” Annie grumbles, but she dismisses it with a shrug, like a duck to water. “I fell in love because there’s no one else that I’d rather be with than you, Finn.”

“Annie,” Finnick says, wishing that he could put everything he feels for her in the way he says her name.

“Your turn,” Annie says. “Before the sun sets.”

“Where to begin?” Finnick inhales. “I’d spent so long trying to convince myself that it could never be, that you could never… but when you did, you do, it made me want to try.”

He was scared, but Annie inspires him, makes him braver. He wants to be with Annie so badly, and Finnick won’t let the Capitol push people away from him. He won’t let it be an excuse any more.

Under the table, his fingers lace with hers, just in time to catch the sunset, the brilliance of her smile.

This, he gets to keep. This moment, this secret, this happiness.

 

 

“You look so dopey these days, Odair,” Librae scowls, and shoves a book into his chest. “Here, it’s a goddamn tragedy. I checked.”

It’s heavy.

The weight of it makes him step back a bit.

“You like me miserable, huh,” Finnick comments, wry. “What have I ever done to you, Librae?”

Librae rolls her eyes. “I’m just sick of that stupid grin on your face.”

“What can I say,” Finnick says, and it’s true, he hasn’t been able to stop smiling for _days._ “It’s been pretty sunny recently, and you know what I’m like when it’s sunny.”

“Right,” Librae drawls, sardonic in her agreement, completely unconvinced. As long as Finnick has known her, Librae’s always liked displaying disdain best, but still Finnick can’t tell whether she suspects the reason for his change. “Because you care so much about the weather.”

Finnick shrugs, not in the mood to confirm or deny the truth of that statement. Instead, he stares at the title of the book, and looks up and decides that it is his duty, nay, his _raison d’etre_ , to rile her up with his never ending smile.

“Does it contain sea dragons in it at least?”

Librae shoves him, muttering, “It _might._ ”

 

 

Maria sees him off, one last embrace, one last admission of love.

Finnick holds onto that, that he is loved for who he is, before he hollows out as the Capitol welcomes him. He closes the book, steels his face, careful not to reveal the truth about being a marionette on string. He displays his adoration for the Capitol and it’s citizen when he arrives, stitched into every move he makes.

_I’m yours tonight_ , he’ll say to his latest client. With a smile, teeth as sharp as knives, he’ll sidle up to Seneca Crane, and murmur silky, coquettish, sweet nothings. _We’re sure to have such a good time…_

Finnick wonders what classified information will spill from his lips.

 

 

“When did you get back?” Ron asks, his back turned to him as he tends to his garden. He turned his head when he hears footfall, acknowledging his presence, before returning to his work.

“Couple of days ago,” Finnick says, still in the process of turning the water temperature too hot. It’s not yet been a week, but he’s already announced his return to both Maria and Mags.

“Were you looking for Librae?” Ron asks gruffly, phrased more as a statement than a question.

“Not really.”

“Annie?” Ron tries next, and if he knows, then nothing in his cadence gives it away. Ron is as he has always been, cantankerous, no nonsense, and far more preoccupied with making his garden look better and better each year.

“Nope.”

“Oh,” Ron sounds surprised. When he speaks again, he sounds wary. “You were looking for me.”

“Third time’s the charm,” Finnick nods. “Yep.”

“Alright,” Ron stops, his attention captured. “How can I help?”

“I wanted to pick up where I left off, I guess,” Finnick confesses, and it’s been _years_ since he’s picked up a trowel, planted some seeds. “I don’t remember being very good at it, but…”

“You were fine,” Ron interrupts, his voice a low rumble. He shakes his head. “I remember. Besides, there’s still time to make a gardener out of you yet.”

“Thanks,” Finnick mumbles, sitting down beside him. He’ll probably never be a gardener, but it’s nice how Ron almost praises him, it’s nice to know that Ron thinks that he has promise. Sure, he would have preferred Ron to snort, correct him and say something like _you were amazing_ , but that fantasy was never going to come true.

Still, he can dream.

“You done fishing? Grab a trowel already,” Ron grunts, and it’s back to how it’s always been, brusque and blunt, like when hang out at the gym. “Just do your best, alright?”

“Yeah,” Finnick takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out. “I can do that.”

Ron doesn’t ask questions, not often, and most of them about the garden, rather than personal issues. That’s never been his way, and Finnick has always appreciated that about him.

 

 

When he’s ready, Finnick looks for Annie.

“I’ll be here,” Annie had said, promising, her hand gently squeezing his. “We’ll get through this.”

He finds her on the beach, armed with a bucket half-filled with seashells, and a pretty floral dress.

“Annie,” Finnick says, and Annie turns, waves crashing behind her. “Found you.”

“So you have,” Annie says, with a warm smile. “Now what?”

A rush of affection bursts through Finnick, and he finds himself stuttering out the words before he can stop himself —

“Can I kiss you?”

Annie looks as surprised as he feels, pleasantly so, but she steps closer and Finnick memorizes the way her cheeks unfurl pink, not unlike watching that sunset not so long ago, and he wants to hold her hand, he wants to hold her close.

Then, slowly but certainly, she nods.

“Yes,” Annie says, tilting up his head to meet him halfway.

The world goes silent, dissolves into nothing more than the warm press of Annie’s mouth. Finnick’s never known gentleness like this, draws it close to him, his hands helplessly sliding up her spine, then buried deep in her hair. Annie’s own hands are curved around the nape of his neck, Finnick notices fleetingly, her touch making his nerves tingle, bones shiver; and their lips slot together like a puzzle piece, and Finnick becomes bolder, opening his mouth and letting Annie in.

He thinks that Annie could take him apart like this. With nothing more than a kiss, the curl of her tongue.

He feels heady when they part, and it makes no sense, Finnick thinks, heart racing, light headed, muddling thoughts mostly comprised of sensory emotions, skittering like sparks, burned bright on his lips.

He’s performed lewder acts like this, so why — why does he feel so vulnerable by her kiss?

His thumb rests on her jawline, her hands sweep at his shoulder blades, and it’s difficult to think of any romance novel that could top this.

“You’re trembling,” Annie murmurs, and Finnick thinks dazedly that there must be stars in his eyes, reflected in her own.

“I never thought it could be like this,” Finnick admits, marvelling at how electrified he feels.

Even with the one night stands, he had never felt anything similar to what he feels with Annie. There was a liberating sense of agency about the hook ups, free to be picky and accept, free to be picky and refuse. But the novelty had faded, and Finnick soon lost interest, figuring that even if he had the choice, he didn’t feel satisfied.

The emptiness afterwards, that remained the same.

But this — his relationship with Annie, the mere act of holding hands and being the only ones aware of it, their first kiss on a low tide, breathing each other in — this feels intimate and precious and more wonderful than he could have ever imagined.

“I didn’t either,” Annie sighs, lips quirking into a smile as she looks at him with adoration. “Can I kiss you again?”

 

 

“Where do we go from here?” Finnick asks, careful, playing with her hair, and they lean against each other, lying on a blanket. “Do we tell the others at Mags’ next dinner?”

Annie sighs, her head on his shoulder. “I don’t… do you think they already know?”

“They might,” Finnick says, mulling over the way they’ve been behaving recently. “Which means one of them might spill the beans before we get the chance to, all for the sake of drama.”

“Muscida,” Annie decides in an instant. “It’s going to be Muscida.”

“Yoga’s going to be fun,” Finnick snorts, and feels Annie shudder with laughter besides him. “All those bending…”

“All the innuendo,” Annie adds, and Finnick chokes, a frog in his throat, and he hadn’t even thought about _that_. “It’s totally going really fun.”

“If he even lasts ‘til then,” Finnick muses, “I’m going to bet on Mags.”

Mags, who most definitely knows, who won’t hesitate to slyly allude to it and cause a ruckus, if she feels so inclined.

“Good choice,” Annie says, and then pauses. “Maybe we shouldn’t, though.”

“What, not tell them?” Finnick asks, stilling, unsure if she means that or… something else.

He hates that he can see the logic in it. The less the other victors knew, the better. If no one talked about it, then it’s another way to keep them safe, to keep the Capitol out of their lives.

And yet.

Sooner or later, they’d trip up, be less careful than they thought they were, and then what would happen?

“Not tell them,” Annie says, softly, looking away. “Not forever, just for a little while.”

“I’ve already told Maria,” Finnick informs her. “Annie…”

“I’ve told my parents too,” Annie quickly states. “Did you think…”

“I don’t know,” Finnick heaves out a sigh, not wanting Annie to finish the sentence, wherever it was leading. “How long did you have in mind?”

“I’m not sure,” Annie admits, and he’s close enough to feel the heat in her cheeks. “Just… a little while, okay? I want to be certain about this. That this isn’t…”

“This isn’t… what?” Finnick repeats. He wants to badly to know that her next words aren’t ‘a mistake’.

He wills himself to calm down, to not jump to conclusions.

“I want to be with you, Finn, I do,” Annie states, insistent. Her shoulders stiffen as she sits up, and gazes at the sea. “But I can never be completely certain that this was a choice. Did I fall in love with you because I wanted to, or because a Timer predicted that we’d be… meant for each other.”

Oh.

“There’s no way to know for real,” Annie says, trying to keep her voice even, her arms around herself. 

Real or not real.

That brings back a few memories.

Finnick stays quiet, scratches his skin that’s behind his ear, and scoots forward. He guesses some things don’t change, after all.

Nudging her gently, Finnick asks, “Does it really bother you that much?”

“Why _doesn’t_ it bother you?” Annie whispers, frustrated not at him, but at her old habits, old thoughts, old worries.

Stars glitter, reflected on the sea. Moonlight casts its own shadow, across the dark blue horizon. The waves ebb and flow, wild horses galloping over the ocean floor.

“It’s just one less thing to think about,” Finnick says, feeling calmer, after he’s looked at the sea and settled his thoughts. He might not say the right things, not all of it perfect, but he hopes that it will be enough. “For what it’s worth, it’s real to me.”

He’s wanted to be with his soulmate for as long as he can remember. Even after life as a victor, impossible as it seemed.

Better to be with his soulmate, Finnick had decided long ago, than no one at all. And if he couldn’t have his soulmate as a lover, well, he would contend to have his soulmate as a trusted friend.

“The heart wants what it wants, and the Timer that we both removed knows it, somehow,” Finnick says, reaching out for her hand, and Annie gives it, squeezing lightly. Encouraged, he continues. “Sure, you can fall in love with someone different, or never meet the person that the Timer says is the one for you, or you can live your life a million other ways. But I believe in it, and it’s okay that you don’t, Annie.”

He presses a kiss in the centre of her palm. “You make me happy. That’s all that matters.”

“Yeah,” Annie says, breathlessly, averting her eyes, and Finnick recognizes the gesture enough to know that she’s blushing. He wishes that the stars above them could illuminate her better. “You make me happy too. You’re right.”

“What was that?” Finnick teases. “One more time?”

“I said, you’re _awful_ , okay?” Annie snatches her hand back, and Finnick bursts into laughter. “The absolute worst.”

“Careful, now,” Finnick encasing her into a hug, his nose burying into the curve of her neck. “That’s your soulmate you’re talking about.”

“Right, how silly of me,” Annie snarks. “You’re pretty fantastic, you know.”

The Fantastic Finnick Odair. He likes the sound of that.

“I can be,” Finnick smiles. “Okay. Let’s have a secret relationship for now. Until there’s no more doubt.”

“We’ll get through this,” Annie promises, encasing her hand with his. “I swear.”

“We’ll call it Special Soulmate Privilege Seven-Three-Five: The Clandestine Edition,” Finnick says, his free hand sweeping over the midnight sea. “Can you imagine?”

“I take it back, I hate you,” Annie says, without batting an eye, though Finnick can distinctly hear laughter in her voice.

“But _do_ you?” Finnick says, placing a kiss on her cheek.

_“Yes,”_ Annie says, angling her face so their mouths join together instead.

 

 

There’s a strange delight in taking things slow, which Finnick has never done before.

He likes the flirty, almost ambiguous doublespeak game they create, insinuating things that could probably be taken as platonic, but has Muscida gazing at them oddly, nearly about to say something but then doesn’t.

Finnick’s been given this chance — the choice to stop, start, ask if this is okay, comfortable — and it’s a two way street. Annie is considerate, unafraid to express her doubts, when she’s notices that he’s uncomfortable and doesn’t push him to continue, when she’s in over her head herself.

They talk about it, taking care to be careful, to be this vulnerable and intimate with each other, piece by aching piece.

It’s a little bit like a romance novel, Finnick thinks, revelling in the slow build between them, Annie pinned beneath him in his bed. It’s a bit like a romance novel, and he really can’t get enough of her kisses, the feel of her skin against his.

He’s a little bit in love with cataloguing Annie’s reactions, the trial and error in making Annie blush — though error is a poor choice of words — he _tests and seeks_ new ways in making Annie blue and moan and curse under her breath, like she is now, as his hand drag over her hips, and he traces a trail of butterfly kisses all the down her neck with his mouth.

“Fuck,” Annie whimpers, pulling him up so she can kiss him again, hot and heavy and leave him wanting more, wanting to put his hands under her shirt and squeezing her breasts, wanting to leave her cheeks flushed and eyes bright, and him so, so turned on.

“You like that, huh,” Finnick drawls, smirking, as her skin flushes a delicate shade of red.

He wants to touch her everywhere, to watch her come apart, and see her return to him full of love.

It’s never — it’s never been like this before.

“C’mere,” Annie speaks huskily, scrabbling on top of him, clawing off the buttons, ruining his shirts, every time with a smile and leans in for a kiss. The only reason she gets away with it is because he adores her so.

Her hair is mussed up because Finnick likes running his hand through it, addicted to the sight of her tangled curls, addicted to carding his fingers through her hair just because he can. It makes her shiver in such a delectable way.

Their foreheads touch, and Finnick pushes himself up, all too aware of Annie sitting in his lap, her skirt riding up, his erection pressing into her thigh.

Her thumbs hook into the empty loops of his jeans, and Finnick has to concentrate and listen to what Annie is asking of him.

“Can I?” Annie says, completely unfairly, her eyes big and mesmerizing, splaying her fingers over his bare skin.

She asks, like he could deny her this.

“Yes,” Finnick breathes out, the word rippling through his skin, glistening like sweat, and he says it again as Annie strokes him through his pants, his hips moving of their own volition, buckling into her, eager for more friction. The fabric provides a sweet ecstasy, but it’s not enough.

“Easy, sailor,” Annie murmurs, tenderly nipping at his neck, as she pushes the zipper down and takes his dick in her hand.

Finnick whines, rocking frantically against her fingers, trying to meet her thrust for thrust, desperately close to his release, before Annie changes the rhythm and Finnick curses under her breath, trying to match her.

“Annie, what the fuck?” Finnick grunts out, with each snap of his hips, trying to punctuate his consuming desire to be pushed over the edge.

Annie’s smirk is positively sinful, the tipping point. “You gotta make it worth my while.”

Finnick comes with stars in his eyes, spilling over her fingers and the sheets, babbling her name as he does so.

His heart would slam out of his ribcage, if given half the chance, so to stop it, Finnick lurches forward and catches Annie by the mouth, pushing his tongue in and stealing all her breath. It’s a messy, and languid kiss, but it does the trick: calming his heart when nothing else will.

“What do I have to do make it worth your while?” Finnick says, not quite a question, as Annie looks with at him with hooded eyes, her face flushed. “Let me guess, you want me to put on a show?”

He’s not expecting her to answer as he mulls over the enigma himself, skimming up her legs to apex of her thighs, and finds her wet and wanton.

“I wouldn’t say no,” Annie swallows, squirming as he cups her sex through her panties, shifting insistently as he presses into the material, rubbing against her clit. “ _Fuck,_ Finn.”

“We’ll get there,” Finnick lazily says, changing tack and shoving her onto her back, supported by pillows. Her legs fall open, and Finnick shoves the palm of his hand between them, the angle slightly awkward, but bearable. “I’m still thinking about that show.”

“ _Oh,_ oh,” Annie gasps, trying to hide the quiver in her voice, too bad Finnick has caught onto it, files it away for the future. Her throat bobs. “Which part?”

“What happens next,” Finnick muses, flexing his fingers coated by her desire and Annie all but squeaks as he pushes her panties aside. “Do I tell you to not touch yourself as I jerk myself off, because every time you do, I’ll think of a penalty, make it much more agonising than you’ve ever known; or will it be too late, and you’ll retaliate before I get the chance?”

“Like this?” Annie gasps, face flushed as her works her up and with shaking hands she removes her t-shirt, shimmies out of her bra, and pinches her nipples.

“Nope,” Finnick drawls, sliding his thumb up to find her clit, smirking as Annie’s hips arch off the bed.

Annie gasps, Finnick kisses her quiet.

“What then?” Annie moans, fisting the sheets as he traces her folds, slow circles that keep her tantalizingly on the edge, prying whimper after whimper out of her. _“Tell me.”_

“Not sure yet,” Finnick admits, practically crooning as he swoops down, tongue swiping at her heaving bosom. “I’ll tell you next time.”

“Fucker,” Annie says, in a breathy sort of way, but she’s grinning, and the truth is, he intends to tease her only for a little bit longer.

Annie’s eyes keep fluttering shut and then blinking open, like she wants to watch him as he fucked her with his fingers, but she wants to stifle her hitched breath, and she yields, she yields, she yields.

She’s nearly screaming by the time he takes mercy on her, curling his fingers and her muscles clench, working her through it as she comes.

Finnick holds her tight, Annie’s face hidden against his collarbone, both of them slick messes, basking in the afterglow.

“So?” Finnick asks, drowsily, setting himself next to her, and raises his brow, the epitome of a gallant hero. “Did I make it worth your while?”

Annie looks at him, head lolling to the side, as she tries to regain her breath.

“It was fun,” Annie starts, and Finnick nods vigorously, in total agreement. “But I bet you can do better.”

“Well,” Finnick grins, taking in good humour, too blissed out to properly care. “You don’t know what else I can do. Yet.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Annie agrees, quick to repeat.

It’s alright, he knows. They’ve got plenty of time, plenty to look forward to, plenty of fun to be had.

 

 

Finnick wakes up screaming.

It takes several minutes to calm down, to tie and retie a knot until his hands are sore.

It takes several more minutes to realize that Annie is beside him, talking to him in soothing tones. She’s not touching him, but feels close enough that if he wanted to reach and touch her, he could.

“Shit,” Finnick says, as Annie switches on the light, his pulse erratic. He hasn’t had a nightmare in so long.

“Hey,” Annie says, asking for his hand, and they lace their fingers together, give a comforting squeeze. “I get it. Are you okay?”

“I will be,” Finnick exhales. He feels restless, all of sudden, undecided on whether he’ll go to the beach or take his boat out to sea. “Think I go out for a while.”

“Okay,” Annie says, pausing before asking. “Mind if I come with?”

“Sure,” Finnick nods, feeling reassured by her presence. “I think I could use the company.”

 

 

They compromise and go to the pier instead, legs dangling above the water, the sky blending into rose damask.

“I’m ready,” Annie tells Finnick with a smile, “I don’t have any doubts about us anymore.”

“Oh?” Finnick beams, relief rolling off him in waves, feeling as though his heart could sing. “That’s great, Annie, we can finally tell them something that they’ve been wanting months to hear.”

“Yeah, well,” Annie shrugs, cute as a button, “If they’ve waited this long, they can wait a little longer.”  

“Why not?” Finnick snorts. They’ll tell them at the next dinner they have together. “What are we going to say?”

“Oh, man,” Annie wrinkles her nose. “I haven’t thought of anything.”

“I know!” Finnick thinks, lighting up. “Something poetic.”

“Like we’re two fish out of water, but together, we are not alone?” Annie teases, tilting her head.

“Not bad, not bad,” Finnick humours her, “I was thinking something like… say, you crept up on me?”

“That’s terrible poetry,” Annie says, her shoulder nudging his, as he hooks his ankle with hers.

“It’s a work in progress, Miss Fish Out Of Water,” Finnick sniffs. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Like how we’re still figuring out how we’re soulmates?” Annie asks, only gently teasing.

“Actually,” Finnick says, glad that she’s finally brought the topic up, “I think I may have come up with an answer.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Annie says, holding up her hands, flailing. “Let me ask the question first.”

“Okay,” Finnick allows, smiling hopelessly. “Ask away.”

“What the fuck is a soulmate anyway?” Annie asks, giggling as she does so.

“A sea change!” Finnick answers, delivering it like a punchline to a joke. “What do you think?”

“Wow,” Annie says, the corners of her lips quirking into a smile. “Just… wow.”

“I’m not wrong,” Finnick says, plaintive. “Am I?”

“No, not wrong,” Annie concedes, slowly, looking at him like she can’t believe how much she loves him to listen to shit like this. She laughs, turning affectionate. “Sure, Finn. Why not? You’re my soulmate, you’re my sea change.”

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Finnick says, ridiculously pleased with himself, and that’s exactly what he does.

 

 

As it turns out, the other victors knew about them, and Muscida, predictably, is unbearably smug about it.

Ron, to Mags’ amusement, and Librae’s dismay, is the one who wins the bet.

 

 

This is his happily ever after, he thinks later.

Before a girl from District Twelve volunteers for her little sister, and mutters to Caesar that she doesn’t want to talk about her soulmate, and the boy from District Twelve claims that he came into the Games with his soulmate.

Before he falls apart in the Quarter Quell, hearing Annie’s voice scream in terror and he can’t help but panic, mind riveted in fear, his thoughts whirring the same words over and over  _fuck, they know — Annie is in pain — they’ve always known —_ and he’ll always be under their thumb, no matter what.

Before he goes on one last mission that will likely end in his life.

 

 

It’s not perfect. Finnick still has togo to the Capitol, smile and charm and play his part to the best of his ability — hating that it has to be this way. Finnick still wakes up screaming and has to go to the ocean, Annie by his side. Or Annie does, and in a muffled voice, she asks him to read to her, and he does, changing his voice to suit the characters, and it works, every time.

But they make the best of it, the way they know how, and maybe that’s the closest thing they'll get to a happily ever after, and that’s good enough for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanmix: [a side ](http://8tracks.com/the_milliner-s_rook/black-rocks-and-shoreline-sand) & [b side ](http://8tracks.com/the_milliner-s_rook/fishes-out-of-water)


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